The joys of late-draft writing

It's finally happening.

Late-draft joy—when it happens—is a blessed relief. I’m experiencing it at last, in the seventh draft of my novel-in-progress, to which I say: phew and yay.

Phew and yay.

This post is purely to share my exhiliarion. Please indulge me. It’s very hard earned.

It feels like I’ve spent years building a house, painstakingly focusing, for the most part, on the rudiments of engineering and architecture, making sure that the structure is sound and elegant and functional as well.

Now I get to work on the details.

What kind of finishing do I want on the doors and windows and on the exterior walls and the roof? What kind of flooring in each room, what palette and surface texture for the walls? Lighting: ceiling, wall, natural light—what works best in each space? And let’s not forget the furniture, the decor, the art.

Diligence gives way to pleasure, to flights of fancy, to experimentation and risk-taking and inventiveness and thrill. The structure is sound, after all. There’s no fear that the house will collapse. It’s still important to heighten the elegance and functionality of the house, but otherwise, fine aesthetic considerations are all.

What works best in each corner? What intrigues? What clicks, what pops? What creates the most gratifying space to dwell in? What makes me (and the reader) never want to leave?

I write, now, filled with the creative exuberance I’d hoped to eventually feel when I first outlined the novel years back.

This is what I write for. To feel the euphoria of creating something beautiful, something right.

It’s finally happening.

Phew and yay.