I feel nostalgic. All I want to do is lay on the couch, wrapped in a thick layer of blankets and listen to soft, soothing songs. I wouldn't mind for a cup of hot, black coffee and a piece of chocolate cake either. If the wind was blowing or better yet if big snowflakes fell from the night sky, I wouldn't be happier.
You see, I feel like mourning for the story I'm about to finish writing but the crazy thing is that it's not actually finished yet. I have more than 10000 words still to write.
But I'm missing the beauty of this story even if it's a dark (pitch black) one with murders and damaged people. Now that I'm closing all the loose ends and heading straight to finish line, I have the need to mourn for Cassandra. She is a unique character to me, I think because she is the first real character. She has a depth I didn't know a character could have. Even if her image is still fuzzy in my head, her existence is solid. I feel like I can stretch out my hand and touch her.
I know that I have a long way ahead of me, rewriting and editing (when that time comes) but the beauty of discovering her sad and painful story, the thrill to try and figure out what will happen to her in the end, is one-time deal.
Maybe that's a reason I'm stalling. I do write because I am magnetized by her story, but I write slowly, taking my time so I'll make it last as long as I can. It's funny how we struggle to write, to fill the pages with interesting and powerul scenes, how we crave for the reader to conect with our story and bite our nails anticipating the end. But the closer we get the more empty we feel. Like we gave our soul for this novel and now it just ends, leaving us like an empty shell.
Have you ever felt like this?