>Well, I’ve finished it. The whole thing.
Written, edited (45 times or more), printed and sat on my desk.
It’s taken me almost three years to write my novel, Greaveburn (with a year’s break in between the first and second halves) and it’s finally done. It’s kind of hard to believe and I feel a bit sad.
No word of a lie, the idea for this book came in a dream. A single creepy scene from eating too much cheese. But it festered, and the characters in that dream grew and shaped themselves. The brass contraption with the girl trapped inside kept coming back to me; the grotesque mute in a top hat; the old woman with the withered hand.
Even as I wrote my first two novels (both are utter tosh and will never see the light of day but were a great learning experience) the images from that dream formed a story. And years later it’s done and I don’t really want to say goodbye. I really really wish there was a sequel to this story so I could do it all again. But there isn’t.
Then again, it’s not all bad, because I’m glad it’s done. To see it in a tangible form means I’ve the last few years haven’t been in vain. What a wierd combination of emotions. I’m elated at the finished problem, but feel like I’m greaving for my characters.
I suppose the only thing now is to send it out into the world and see if anyone else feels so moved by it.
Wish me luck!