On finishing manuscripts and beginning new ones

It's an odd thing to be finished with something I've spent the last year working steadily on. It was eleven months ago when I decided I was going to stop dabbling at the edges of my writing and fully embrace it. I blew the dust off the first ten chapters of Adamantine and settled down to work, cranking out the next 15 chapters in a matter of a few months.

Then came revisions. And I learned that I love revisions. I love revisions more than I love the first draft, which often feels like squeezing blood from a stone. But once the draft is done, it's so invigorating to transform that bloodless stone into something that lives and breathes.

But now there is this lull, this listlessness that fills the space where that drive to finish once existed. Now that it's done, I'm not sure what to do with myself. I'm not sure where to focus that energy. It seems too soon to start the next project, as if I'd be dishonoring a dead spouse by moving on to a new relationship so quickly. But the passion is still there, and the new story is itching to be written.

There is no shame in diving into the next thing. Story are not spouses, and they do not die when they end. They are children: they live, and grow, and the more there are, the richer life is.

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