The novel is done.

In March 2010, we went and saw The Paradise Motel play a reunion show. The next day, I was sick as a dog, and I wrote five thousand words of a new novel. It was about ghosts, and grunge music, and whether friendship is stronger than death.

I finished writing that novel last week.

Yesterday, I submitted it to the Ampersand Project.

People congratulate me, when I tell them that. They say it must feel great.

I smile wanly and nod. Because I have many feelings about finishing the book, and "great" is not how I'd sum them up.

I feel pleased, obviously. And relieved. And exhausted. And fretful -- it's an odd sort of book. I can imagine even if publishers like it, they might turn it down because it doesn't really fit properly into a marketable category.

And I can't stop thinking I could make the book so much better, if only I'd sit down and rewrite the whole damn thing from scratch.

Maybe I could. The book has certainly improved with every redraft. But there is a law of diminishing returns, and the amount of time and effort I'd need to improve the book significantly would be better spent writing something new.

So I'm not touching this manuscript again until a publisher pays me to do so.

It's time go write something new.

Thanks to everyone who's offered advice and encouragement along the way. I appreciate it. And special thanks to A., for putting up with a grumpy writer all these years.