This morning I finished my last chapter of The Bookseller, my first completed novel, a mystery set in contemporary Edinburgh. I expected to be in celebratory mood. It has only taken something like 2 years out of my life, after all. (Admittedly, I haven't stopped doing all the other stuff and there has been a lot of other writing in the gaps - but psychologically this has been a big commitment)
So I expected to feel more than a little euphoric, but actually a feel quite sad. OK the ending was a bit poignant, maybe it's just the residue from that. But really, I feel cheated. No applause, no rush of excitement, just a weird feeling of something having finally come to a close.
Maybe it'll hit me tomorrow.