Staring down the 3 a.m. feelz. Rothsay, Minnesota, USA. 21 June 2021.
Hello, hello, I'm back from my break!
And I am "done" with my first book! I put "done" in quotes because there will be many revisions and copy edits to come in the months ahead. And I put the word "first" before book in that opening sentence because despite what you're about to read, I hope I get to write another one. I hope Windfall is good enough — and that it sells enough! — to get a crack at writing a second book.
So I thought I'd share what it felt like to finish a book. Partly because I haven't seen much written about this emotion, and also because I was caught off-guard by some of the feelings that arose in the hours and days after completing this version of my manuscript.
The last day of work on the book came early in the afternoon on the day before my deadline. The final paragraphs have been done for awhile, maybe a year — I always knew what I was writing toward. After writing the sentences leading up to those final paragraphs, I said it out loud: "Oh, I'm done." And then I burst into exhausted, spent tears.
I was there. I had arrived. And I felt terrible. The final stretch of writing was far more physically demanding than I thought it would be. It surprised me, because I knew what had to be done to get to the end. I could see the hard deadline ahead, and I knew how to get there. But I was not prepared for the labor of it. The last month of work required intense bouts of sitting and concentrating that, for whatever reason, were far more taxing on my body than when I completed my euphoric first draft. Perhaps it was because this time I was weaving connections and building bridges that pulled the whole thing together. It was work that required me to hold in my brain — and therefore my nervous system — the entirety of a 86,000-word narrative. When I was done, I was weary. My body hurt and my brain felt fried.
In the days after turning in the manuscript, I woke up every night around 3 a.m. with the same feeling of shame: The end product is not good enough, it is not the right version of the story, other people have done it better, this thing I made is too flawed to be seen by anyone.
Speaking this feeling out loud probably violates a code that more confident writers never disrespect. But when I first wrote about it in an Instagram post, I got lots of kind feedback from other writers and artists and scientists who have finished big projects and who have experienced similar feelings.
Many suggested the feeling was imposter syndrome, which is when people — especially women — contend with persistent feelings of inadequacy despite evident success. I don't think it's imposter syndrome, in part because I, uh, know my work can always be even better. A wise therapist told me many years ago that when I'm done with something, I need to tell myself that I did the most I could with it in the time I had. That usually works, unless I've completely slacked off. (And while I can and do procrastinate, I'm too much of a perfectionist to totally slack off, hah. Certainly not with a book!) I've learned to live with my critic's brain, which will always wonder: How could what I made have been even better?
I thought this feeling might be arrival fallacy, which is when a long-sought achievement fails to deliver the happiness you thought it would. But other than the last month, I actually enjoyed most of the process of researching, reporting and writing the book. I'm glad I did it. I cannot imagine a life where I didn't.
After a few weeks distance from my deadline, I'm beginning to suspect that the feeling represented something else. It's grief. I'm grieving the end of the period of my life I spent on this project — eight years! This feeling is a normal part of the process of making something big and sharing it with the world, especially after holding it close and tending to it for so long. The project is not just mine anymore. I must share it for it to be fully realized. And that's a little scary!
So, yes, the feeling still lingers as I await my editor's feedback. But I've also started to get really excited to see what the cover of the book will look like, and how my publisher plans to help me promote my work. Mostly, I'm beginning to be excited about sharing what I made with the rest of the world.
Finally, a thank you. This newsletter got its start when I began this project, and I'm so grateful to all of you who have let me share "the doing" of it with you — and "the done."
Love,
Erika
P.S. Do you remember Nick Chontos, the truck driver I wrote about last year? He finished his book about toxic masculinity and self-published it! And yes, I bought it, because if a friend or colleague or acquaintance writes a book, I almost always spring for a copy. Is Nick's book good? I don't know yet, and it doesn't really matter. He finished it.
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