It is always a weird feeling–half joy, half sadness, half relief, half regret. Okay, so my numbers don’t add up.
But I wrote my last paragraph five minutes ago:
Rose clapped her hands again and jumped up, out of her chair, twirling around the room and ignoring a passing nurse who walked through her. Maybe someday she’d be ready to move on. But first she needed to find out who Dumbledore was.
And so ends A Gift of Time.
Seventeen months, it took me. I don’t know how many times along the way I thought I was ready to give up. I don’t know how many days I counted it as a triumph that I opened the file, even if I didn’t write a word.
I might never sell a single copy of this book. I may decide that it’s like my first one, suited only for storage on a USB drive. But finishing it is still an achievement. Like being the last person to finish a marathon, maybe?
And now to drink some wine and watch some Grimm.