Crossroads

I'm about a month away from finishing a new draft of my novel. One month. I've given myself until September 1 to finish it. I think it will be "done" before that. And while I suspect that all writers have this nagging sense that their projects are never really DONE, my gut is telling me that within the next month I will have taken it as far as I can take it without professional help. (This time I don't mean a psychiatrist.)

Remember how you felt about a month before graduating high school? Elated, excited, ready to get out on your own and into the world, ready to do great things, pressured with last minute assignments and requirements and tests, sad about saying goodbye to good friends, happy that there were some people you'd never have to see again, terrified that you might actually be completely inept and OMG THEY ARE HANDING ME MY DIPLOMA AND I AM NOT READY FOR THIS!

It's similar to how I feel right now. I've worked on this baby since November of last year. The ideas have been churning for a few years. Everything has changed several times, but I'm actually pretty satisfied with how it's turning out. But now -- what the hell do I do with it? I feel like a kid ready to graduate who has no prospects beyond June -- just a vague sense that I *should* do something, but I have no idea what.

Am I ready for the majors? I doubt it. Am I ready to query and seek an agent? I don't think so. Should I work on craft more? Probably. Always. Should I keep tinkering with this damn thing? I don't think so.

Good heavens... You thought I had angst about the direction of the book itself. Nah, that was nothing. Now here I sit with a nearly completed novel and NO IDEA what to do with it. I've called it "done" before. I've tried to ignore it. I can't resist it.

So what do I do?

Sit on it, I suppose. Put it in a drawer. Let it take up space on my hard drive. I dunno... I can't really picture anyone reading it. That's not a statement of self-deprecation or lack of faith in my ability as a writer. It's just that I can't picture anybody reading it. I don't know why.

I've done this before -- finished book-length stories and set them aside. I have two of them sitting in manuscript boxes in my closet. They are both completely unrelated to each other and what I'm working on now. I've created characters, led them through events, given them endings, and cried when I finished because I knew I had to say goodbye. I sense that same thing happening again. While I know this novel is far better than either of the other two from years ago, I still think there's something permanent about the way this is coming to an end -- something similar to what I did before.

This is where the rubber meets the road. This is where I fish or cut bait. Paint or get off the ladder. Yada yada yada......

So what do I do? I don't know. Maybe in a month I will. Stay tuned.