Last night I went to bed, feeling a strange feeling.
I didn’t feel restless, no inner struggles, no sense of impending failure or wasted time or frustration.
I felt complete, finished, settled.

As I lay back in bed, awash in this unusual sensation of satisfaction, it occurred to me what the cause was.

I had written.

Nothing earth shattering, probably not even something any good, but I’d let my muse lead me around and for the moment, she was content.

Almost everyone who writes mentions how much more wonderful the feeling of “having written” is than the actual process of ripping the words out of your head.

It’s been a long time since I felt that so acutely.

Thanks, #3daynovel contest. It’s been a fun ride and I’m smug as a cat this morning.
Now, if I can only get my computer printer to cooperate….