Typed the final words to the novel in progress, The Constant, this morning. Was as satisfying as a cosmic orgasm or a cold beer on a blazing summer day.
For the record, this was the seventh draft. I started it in April of 2020. Just under one hundred five thousand words of speculative fiction. I wanted to finish it before 2022 but I was doubtful that would happen back around Thanksgiving. I shrugged off the hope and kept writing.
The elevator pitch goes, “This novel is about a television gunfighter in a dystopian civilization on another planet. Or maybe not.”
Feels odd to not need to write like crazy for the moment, though. Of course, other novel ideas are queueing up, eager for their computer screen time. Guess I’ll suck on some coffee and contemplate it all.