Labor of Love

This weekend was kind of a big deal.  For about six years now, I have been working on one single enormous project: my novel series of four books, titled (for now) Release, Renewal, Revelation, and Relief.  That is over now, as I finally finished writing the last book on Saturday. 

Pause for effect.

It’s a bewildering thing.  I’m proud of my work—while it needs polishing, I know that it is strong, especially the ending.  And yet, I feel a little hollow.  At first, I thought it was grief for the story that has lingered at the back of my mind for half a decade, or else for those characters who didn’t make it to that strong ending.  But that’s the thing about books—whatever may happen, the story never really ends, and a character still is, even after death.  Both remain rooted in the present—you just have to turn the pages back to find them again.  I should be glad that they are all now real for more than just me.

Ay, there’s the rub.  To give this story and these characters substance in the real world cost me a bit.  I used to be able to dive into their world in my mind, to test and try on plots, to taste their words in my mouth.  It used to be an escape for me, somewhere I could go to be someone else for a while.  Now, however, that door is closed.  The story is on paper, all its possibilities solidified, and there’s no way in anymore except by the words on the page.  And while I have other stories into which I can flee, this one has been my chosen destination for so long.  I will miss spending time there.

Still, I’m glad that I did it.  The hours of work, the years of thought—I don’t regret a minute.  These characters have given me so much, and I owed it to them.  Now even if they go no further, still they are in the world.  They are real.  And I could not ask for more than that.