This writing thing is such an emotional thing.
First, the euphoria of the new idea. Then the excitement as it unfolds. A little terror thrown in there because this idea wouldn’t be any good if it wasn’t a little risky. Maybe too much violence. Or some sexy sexy sex. Or you’re talking politics or oppression or heartbreak. Maybe it’s too raw or too silly, but whatever it is, you’re breaking open your heart to pour out the stuff you’ve kept locked in there – the stuff that *matters*.
Then, the tears come because that one chapter was perfectly, beautifully awful. But you give them, those characters you’ve spent half a book falling in love with, a chance – a small chance – to grow and become better than they were. You put them in a box even you don’t know how they’re going to get out of, and your heart rate picks up and your fingers fly because you need to know, just as much as your future readers, how this one’s going to turn out. Who will die? Who will break? Who will be better for the tarnish even if it marks him forever?
Finally the end comes in a mad rush – adrenaline and triumph and lo, and behold, the euphoria is back! You remember why you took the risk, the chance of exposing your heart to the world, because *this story* needed to be told. The last line falls on the page… and it’s done.
Euphoria grabs Joy and they get a little high on Accomplishment.
Then the next day… the next day… you’re fairly certain you could never write another book. That you’ve used up whatever go-juice made that one happen, and all the others before, because Exhaustion is the handmaiden that carries that story to the readers. Not an exhaustion of the body or even the mind, but the soul… because you’ve given it all away.
You always forget this part.
Tomorrow… tomorrow is when Euphoria will come knocking again.