ALVA
The last sentence of my novel stares back at me long after I finish my third read for the day. No errors detected, again. For a long moment, I simply sit there, fingers hovering over the keyboard, as if the laptop might suddenly decide the manuscript is incomplete and spit it back out at me.
But it doesn't. The blinking cursor waits patiently at the bottom of the page, beneath the final line of Chapter Thirty-two.
I lean back slowly in my chair and rub my eyes. It's done. I can't believe I stuck it out to the finish line. I pinch myself. How did I go from "I should probably write a book documenting my shitty life story" and the prolonged days of, I'll get back to this later". To writing the last sentence? something inside my chest loosens for the first time in weeks, maybe months.
The edits the literary agent suggested had felt intrusive at first., like a stranger trying to rearrange the furniture in a house he didn't build.
