So, now that I've finished a book, do I feel a sense of triumph? A thrill? A horrible sense of despair?
In my case, it's relief that it's finished, and a sense of...foreboding...is about the best way to put it - the fear that I've missed some huge plot hole that makes the Grand Canyon look like a crack in the plaster. I'm also always having to play catch-up with all the things that I let slide during the final rush to the finish, like laundry and gardening. This year, I had great plans and...
Nope. Didn't happen. However, my iris did look lovely.
The other thing I am is exhausted. I don't sleep that well when I have a lot going on, and this spring, I had a LOT going on.
So I'm going away for a few days, to sleep and eat strawberries and walk and read. If there's one good thing about being an empty nester, it would be this - the ability to just take off for a few days with no big preparations, like lining up a baby sitter and packing for the kids.
Ta ta for now, folks!