Today I sit in front of my computer an inexcusable mess. I’m not happy, in fact I’m miserable. This weekend I have chosen to wallow in my destitute amalgamation of pity and self loathing, grousing about the weather, the food and even the leaves falling from the trees in my back yard. Beautiful fall colors? How dare they clutter in heaps on my still green grass!
I’ve managed to slink into this dismal state because I finished my book; put the final period on the polished draft and sent it to the publisher. A moment for celebration? Think again. I’m suffering from separation anxiety and it happens every time I finish a story.
For a year I spent time with my characters, reveling in their victories, comforting them during times of devastation and heartbreak. I helped them grow and evolve, offered suggestions on what to wear, how to talk and even chastised them when they demonstrated nasty and offensive habits. They were in essence my children, my wards and it was up to me to take care of them.
Now they don’t need me anymore; they have grown up and left me here alone to stare at a blank page while I opine about the golden days. I sit here in front of the computer missing them terribly wondering how they’re doing, hoping that the reading community loves them the way I do and embraces them as I did.
Ah, last year was the worst and best year of my life, but I know I will eventually survive this malady. At some point I will meet different characters who will require nurturing and guidance, and who knows maybe some of my children may come back to help me.
Perhaps I can plan a family reunion. Wouldn’t that be awesome?