I just finished my fifth book.
That sentence feels strange to write, even now. Five books. A completed draft. A closed file.
And while I’m deeply grateful and proud, I’ll admit something I didn’t quite expect: I feel a little bereft.
My mornings have had a rhythm for a long time now. Wake up early. Make coffee. Settle into my chair. Open the file. Step back into the world of the story. But this morning, the file stayed closed. The draft is finished—and I’m not quite ready to start editing yet. (Procrastination has impeccable timing.)
So here I am, a little unsure of what comes next.
The story isn’t done, not really. I know it will continue. The ideas are already there, flickering at the edges of my thoughts. And that raises the question every writer eventually faces after typing The End:
Do I outline now, while everything is still hot and alive? Or do I rest? Do I reset? Do I let the ideas settle before shaping them?
I don’t have a definitive answer yet. What I do know is this: finishing a book creates a quiet space. A pause. It’s not emptiness exactly—more like standing at the edge of something, waiting to see what rises.
Whatever adventure I undertake next, I’m certain of one thing: it will be worth it. Writing always is. Even the waiting. Especially the waiting.
For now, I’m letting myself sit here for a moment—grateful, a little stunned, and quietly excited for what comes next.