Finishing a novel is kind of like coming back from a long trip overseas. You blink a lot. Your words don’t work right and you find yourself getting up at the wrong time in the morning. The whole world seems a bit foreign and a bit uneasy.

Which is to say, I have finished a draft, and I have spent the last little while so sucked into my draft that i haven’t had much head space for anything else. And I’m very glad to have it finished, since I am moving on Sunday, and having two major projects to deal with at once just seemed utterly overwhelming.

I really hate moving. I have accepted it as an inevitable part of being single and twentysomething and living in New York, but I hate it. I have all these fantasies of finding a really cheap house in rural Japan, but I think I’ll hold out hope for a few more years that I can find myself a semi-permanent residence here in New York.