I wrote “The End.” Then I sat there, slightly stupefied, wondering what to do next.

Is it really the novel’s end? Only the three Rs—re-reading, rewriting, revising—will tell me.

It feels good as a novel at this point. I think I found the story and followed it where it needed to go, shaping plot and character along the way. Like so many writers, I’m left with a quiet sense of wonder: nearly five hundred pages spent exploring another life, another existence. There’s sadness, too. I enjoyed my characters. Writing “The End” makes me miss them already.

A million other ideas are queued up, hungry. But first, I’ll take a day and let the novel—and myself—breathe. Then I’ll open it again, turn to page one, and begin the three Rs.