the last page

(the feeling of writing a book)

The Wolf Moon lingered long into the morning, huge and low over the hill, on the day I sent my finished book manuscript to my editor and agent. My book is not about the moon, but the moon floats through its pages nonetheless. To the email, I had attached two years of work, and all of my heart. After sending it, I felt a little queasy but I closed my laptop and drove to the marine lake for a swim. The sky was an endless blue firmament, the water clear and unruffled. It was a chill 7.8 degrees.

I swam as a celebration, a marker point, a cleanse. My book is not about swimming, but water flows through its pages nonetheless. I washed away long evenings at my desk, the fitness watch I got for Christmas screaming at me in vain to ‘MOVE’! I washed away all the times I thought ‘I don’t know how to put this into words.’ I washed away the dreams of writing, in which I would compose a perfect paragraph but could never remember it the next morning. I swam across the lake, sun on my face, my limbs melting into the delicious cold, and I felt pure relief to have got this far, to have made it to the last page.

My biggest shock was not the cold, but the realisation that I am no longer living within my book. As I traced my obsession across countries, and poured myself into pages, I carried my book with me everywhere. We had never been apart, my book and I. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I was always thinking about it. Now, in sending it out, I was setting it free. It will come back to me, again and again—for structural edits, line edits, copy edits, proofreading—but it will never again be mine alone. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I knew how to be in the world without it. I thought of the bangle I bought myself when I finished my first book: ‘I am my own muse’, it reads.

On the morning of the Wolf Moon, I chose a silver feather necklace, to remind me of how it felt to reach the last page. Later, after my swim—swaddled in layers of fleece and wool—I leaned on the metal fence beside the estuary to eat a chocolate bar I had hidden in my pocket. A short distance away, sitting on a fencepost, was a crow: bright black eyes fixed on me. We passed a moment or two in companionable silence as behind us, the river flowed away to sea. After a time my fingers began to grow numb and the crow turned its head, spread its wings, and flew away over the water. My book is not about birds, but feathers flutter through its pages nonetheless.

Driving home, I saw magpies—two for joy—and I realised that my book had also given me something. Writing my first book taught me to pay attention to the moments, and writing my second book has taught me to take those moments and look for meaning—to understand that the world is mysterious, often unknowable, always magical, awe-inspiring and alive. I have been changed by the writing of this book, and that truly is a joy.

One day—soon, so soon—I will be able to tell you what my book is about.

Thank you for reading,

Laura x

PS: Update…I can finally tell you about my book! It’s called Chasing Fog and you can pre-order it here. If you’re not in the UK, Blackwells offer free worldwide delivery.

{This post is from my occasional series ‘The Feeling of Writing a Book’. You’ll find the rest of the series here.}