Sometimes writing a book is a real struggle. Scrap that—at all times, writing a book is a real struggle. Some days it’s a struggle
authors enjoy in a perverse kind of way. Other days it’s sheer hell. We all at one time or another (and another and another) wonder why in God’s name we continue doing it.
Then we have a day when we actually finish a story, something we’re actually happy with (well, as happy as a writer can ever be with their own work ). Ah, we think. That’s why we do it.
On Thursday night I finally typed THE END on my current WIP, the culmination of almost two years of writing struggles. There were times I wondered if I’d ever finish anything again, so this completion is particularly special for me. And I’m celebrating it.
Premature, perhaps, because it hasn’t yet been critiqued, let alone submitted or accepted. But I’ve decided to pat myself on the back sooner rather than later. After all, it’s the hard work of writing the damn book that is the real achievement, not publication or rave reviews. Not that we don’t like those things. It’s just that I’ve grown to believe we really ought to congratulate ourselves on doing the work for the work’s sake, and treat everything else as gravy. Otherwise our pride in our writing achievements is dependant on the reaction of others, something we can’t control. Who wants to rely on someone else for their own self-worth?
So what am I going to do? Watch A Single Man, because I’ve wanted to for ages and I haven’t gotten around to it yet, make a dent in my ever-growing TBR pile and buy myself a new ipod. Yes, I’m nerdy even in celebration mode . Oh okay, I might have a few glasses of wine over the weekend too.
So what do you do when you want to treat yourself?