Finally, I type them. There’s a feeling of closure, of melancholy, of… what? Is bereftness a word? One for me to look up in the battered dictionary that sits on the shelves upstairs, still preferred over search engines. There’s an immutability to a printed definition, far more difficult for every copy to be edited in one go by one individual. It’s the same reason I still buy paperbacks – for me a story should stand of its time, faults and all.

Speaking of stories, I’ve clearly not finished with the novel I’ve just written; there’s my beta readers to look over it, and doubtless a myriad of corrections. I’ve got to go back and check the timelines and continuity. Make sure that everything adds up.