Finished

It's odd, having a finished story.

I keep opening it up and staring at it uneasily, the word "finished" running on repeat until it starts to sound nonsensical; "fin-ished, fiiiiiiiin-nished, finishedfinishedfinishedfiiiiineeeeeeeeSHED." And then I read through it, trying to find something to fix or add or take away. But the grammar mistakes that are there are there with deliberate intent, it says what I want it to say, it may lack subtlety but I prefer it that way, the narrative voice is singular and steady throughout, the characters are solid...there is nothing to fix, nothing to poke at, no snags to rethread or patch.

It's finished. Done. Ready to go.

Since when do I finish things? Apparently, since four days ago. And that's interesting, because it implies that I could be the sort to finish things. Am the sort to finish things. It's a mental gear-shift. I was a person with ten thousand unfinished ideas and never a full one to show for it, now I am a person who is fully capable of topping them off and sliding them on down the bar.

What a terrifying concept.

Chris hasn't read it yet. He says he's not going to read it until I finish my Shakespeare term paper...

...which I should really get to work on.

Since I'm the person who Finishes Things now.