Late last night, I wrote a final few paragraphs, put my computer on the coffee table, stood up and stretched. I got a piece of banana bread and looked out our window onto the Upper East Side. I’d just finished a project that I’ve been working on for a year and a half, and it was a weird feeling. Good. Great, even. But… strange.
Two years ago, I went backpacking in Zion National Park with one of my closest friends. Brian and I did the entire cross-Zion trek, from west to east sides. It was amazing/brutal. Along the way, I was inspired with an idea for a fictional narrative that I just couldn’t shake. It rattled around my brain for six months afterwards until I finally outlined what that story might look like. And then… I went and wrote some of it.
I wrote it in fits and starts for a long time – finishing pieces and then laying it aside for a while. Earlier this year, though, I committed to getting it done. Perhaps not “finished,” insofar as a piece of creative writing ever is; and perhaps not written extremely well. But written. Out of my head and onto a page. And last night, I finished the last installment to my first-draft satisfaction.
UPDATE 7/22: I’ve written a fuller description of the project here.