My reaction to my latest is just bizarre, completely unlike me. I’ve never quite had such a strange reaction to one of my stories before. First, I procrastinated sending it out three days after it was done. When I finally sent it off, I actually teared up.
And it’s not that time of month.
I had to change my ending, and I really wanted my old ending, but there just wasn’t room. My mind did a novel, and I had to shorten it to 40,000 words. Maybe I cared about improving myself more on this one, and somewhere, I feel like I wish I could have done better. I put a lot of pressure on myself on this one.
Or maybe I just miss my hero. I love him. And my heroine. It’s like, I’m just not ready to give them up.
The first time I finished a story was the first night I slept like a baby. I could get all that gunk out of my head, on paper, and I could sleep.
I didn’t get all of this story out on paper.
And now it’s gone stale, you know? After I read something so many times, my bit of ADD does not let me read it again. I can barely skim. It’s my limitation, and I’ve got to work with it.
But now the story’s done, and I can’t write more, and I can’t enjoy reading it. I liked that world, I guess.
I gotta tell you, this is just bizarre. I do not have this sort of reaction to my stuff. I send it out, get to work on the next one. Oh well. Shake it off. I’ve got another hero to fall in love with. And I’m really hoping to have time to squeeze in a thriller-ish short story before the novella I’m writing for October! In November, I’m shoving out my thriller if it kills me. I swear. (I know you’ve heard it before. Well, I mean it this time.)
So. Have you ever gotten nostalgic about a world or a story, even when you can’t bear to read it again, even when it’s all done? Do you ever just wish you could do it all over again?