Handing in a book always entails some mixed feelings. There's a general sense of relief that a substantial project is off the desk for the time being, meaning that at least a month or two can be turned over to something else. In fact I haven't been into my office since sending in the Merlin book, although I was mildly tempted to go in and do some tidying up this afternoon (I didn't). There's also a period of mental and physical exhaustion, and subsequent recuperation, which doesn't really hit you until after you've submitted the work; it's as if you're running on reserves until then, delaying the inevitable. I've often found that I can keep a cold at bay until I'm done with the book, but it hits me hard a day or two later. Anyone who has gone through some lengthy, stressful process such as a series of exams or a comparable works deadline will probably know the feeling. I like to keep my running going no matter what the writing pressure, but I must confess that I more or less stopped running entirely about a week before delivery, not just because the weather was poor enough not to be an incentive, but also because you're in that window where every hour is valuable, and you just want to push through. In that week I'd also set myself two intermediate deadlines which I failed to achieve, but only after a fairly exhausting run at each.
Anyway, I couldn't switch off immediately because I had a pre-arranged evening up in Birmingham with the Brum SF group, two days away that felt slightly unreal because I was both very tired, but also suddenly free of the anxiety of getting the book in. I had a wonderful time with the always warm and friendly people in Brum, and returned home very pleased with the whole thing, but also beginning to feel that I was running on empty. I did find time to pop into HMV and stock up on new long-players by, among others, Wolf Alice, Wet Leg, Eels, Divorce and Alan Sparhawk, none of which I've yet listened to.
I caught up on some rest on Sunday, then it was back out into the world for a moderately tiring day dealing with banks and accountants, mostly business that had been delayed while I got the book in. I had appointments up in Gloucester on Tuesday, with an early start and a tiring car journey either way. By Wednesday I was feeling out of sorts and decided that only more rest or a run was going to help, so I did my first bit of real exercise in over a week, with a slow, grinding 10K in utterly foul conditions. I was tired at the end of it but it probably did more good than harm, and convinced me that it can't possibly be as horrible on the day when I do the Cardiff Half. Today I had my usual early morning Thursday guitar lesson, then picked up on a little light admin and correspondence. I've been doing some good reading this week, finishing Robert Mason's CHICKENHAWK and now beavering through JET MAN, by Duncan Campbell-Smith, a recent and very readable (if exhaustive) account of Frank Whittle's struggles to develop the jet engine at the start of WW2. Tomorrow I'm back out again for the day, then on Saturday I'll be trying to deliver a successful parkrun at my local event, and praying to the rain gods.
Amid all this, the one thing I haven't been doing is feeling any great sense of elation or triumph at the delivering of a book. It's never been that way for me. There's a general relief, as I've mentioned above, and with that a necessary period of respite, but the emotions are much less ecstatic than you might think. It's more akin to delivering some massive piece of homework - you're glad it's done, but you're too close to it to have a detached view, and more than anything you just want to think about anything else for a few days.
.png)
