I spent most of yesterday afternoon writing and I did something I've only done four other times in my life.
I wrote THE END.
Yes, novel #5 is done. Well...let me clarify. The rough draft is done. This baby needs to be edited! But I'm going to let it sit for awhile before I tackle it. Besides, I have that other book I need to get cracking on.
I wrote over 3,700 words yesterday and my shoulders are feeling it today. But it took my mind off the flare-up I'm currently experiencing, one that is attacking my knees (this is a first!), my ankles, wrists, fingers, and feet.
Funny that I don't feel this huge sense of accomplishment over typing THE END. Why? I suppose it's because I know it's far from being finished.
It is no longer a blank page. And that's what counts.
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