The paradoxical brain filled with legions of dystopian knights, drives me crazy. I thought I would be finishing the first review of my book on Wednesday, however at some point I figured what the heck, why don't I finish it today, and I did.
The final word count for the second draft is 79.653 words.
What would happen next? Would I be happy or satisfied with finishing my work? Where's the dopamine rush? I still feel kind of crap. Why?
I am trying to figure out where to go next, what to do. And then you go on the internet and try to look for some answers, and you really get bummed down, not because I'm not prepared to do the legwork and not because I didn't figure that there would be a lot of competition and that making money of writing a book is very hard. These actually aren't the things that bother me... it is the stupid gremlins, imps, goblins and gnomes inside my head that are driving me crazy, smashing all positive thoughts into piles of dust and rubble whilst laughing gleefully and sycophantically and taunting me into submission.
All that is left in my head is broken gears and levers of the machines of my dreams, the constructs I'm trying to make for myself, and yet I've finished my first book...