I just had the most pleasant experience, which ended in a really abrupt and painful way.
I was reading a book and moving along at a quick clip, caught up in the story and the characters. I was having a great time. And then it just….stopped. It ended right in the middle of a chapter, before we found out who was moving into the manor house in town and what the house would be turned into.
Then I realised it stopped because that’s where I stopped writing it.
That happens occasionally, that I’ll be reading through my drafts and the magic takes over and it stops being “my writing” and starts being “a story”. I stop critiquing and just start enjoying where it’s taking me.
I imagine this might be what a parent feels when her adult child comes home with tales about work or children of her own. A moment where, even though she still came from your upbringing you can sit back and see that she’s become a person in her own right. In her own write.
It’s a happy moment, indeed.