The other day, at my usual table at the coffee shop, with my usual coffee-flavored latte at my elbow, I penned what they call the "Final Image" of the rough draft of Rivers and Roads. I don't usually write "The End" until I'm satisfied that I've done all the revising and editing I can before I call in the Beta Readers to hack it to bits for me.
But this time, well... the new barista here has always been very inquisitive about my writing. She asks me "How's your novel going" every time I come in and set my mug on the counter, and listens patiently while she fills it with coffee-flavored espresso and then creates milkfoam art on top.
So as I jotted the last few words (they made me cry, by the way. I hope they make you cry, too!) I stood, picked up my notebook, and carried it to the cash register. Our excellent barista looked up at me and asked, "How's the novel going?"
I said, "I just wanted to share this moment with you." Then I put the notebook down on the counter and wrote "The End" at the bottom of the page.
She was very sweet about it. She's just that way.
Well, I just figured, seeing someone writing "The End" isn't something most people get to do very often. Heck, I've only seen it five times, now, and I'm the one who wrote it. Well, typed it - until now!
Now the hard part starts: structural revisions, line edits, sweeps through to kill crutch-words (I really use the word "really" far too much!) and then the whole Beta Reader thing. And then more revising and editing. Actually, I call this "the hard part" (actually, I use the word "actually" too much, too.) but, this time, anyway it's not turning out to be as hard as it was to write the story itself. This story really took it out of me, in a way the Woodley series didn't even come close to. It kicked my butt every time I sat down to write it. But I hope that means it'll kick your butt, too. In a nice way, of course!
PS: Speaking of writers and coffee shops, there's a fellow here right now who always sits by the window typing on his laptop... When I say "typing," I mean he pokes those keys so hard with the tips of his index fingers, I can't believe he still has index fingers at all anymore. He hatchets away at the keys in short, sharp bursts, then he sits back, looks at the ceiling, mutters furiously under his breath, and returns to the keyboard. I sure hope he plans to publish whatever it is he's writing, because I can't wait to read it.