It's painful to finish a book. I'm the happiest guy in the world when I'm in the middle of a story. It's comforting to be within your own creation; it really is. Coming to the end means saying goodbye to the story and the characters. I'll miss them terribly.
This is why I'm writing such inane posts lately: I'll do anything rather than complete those last four scenes. Because then it's over.
Today I console myself. "You still have four scenes to go, Keith. Things are okay right this second." But the end is coming and this seems oppressive. Mind you, I'll be thrilled again as soon as I dart back into The Worlds, my sci-fi books. They're the next volumes I have to get ready for readers. Once I'm immersed in the story of The Worlds, I'll be fine. It's that in-between state that's so scary. To be bookless: I hate it.
So at the moment things seem gloomy, and the fact that it's raining heavily in NY doesn't help. But on the other hand, the book sounds just right. I swear it's like giving birth -- pain and joy.
UPDATE: Three scenes to go.