Writing has always been a form of escapism for me. A way to express my perspectives, my beliefs, the things I’ve experienced, and even the things I’ve wished to experience, all under the guise of the characters, storylines and worlds I’ve created. It’s something, I imagine, most of us who love to write can relate to. What I rarely expect, though, is the grief that arrives when a story I’ve spent months writing and crafting finally comes to an end. Since usually, by the time I’m finishing one story, another has already begun taking shape in my mind. I’d rest for a few days before actually writing it, filling my notebook with scattered ideas and half-formed scenes before eventually sitting down to begin again. But this time, it was different. Perhaps I was simply exhausted. Or perhaps life had been too busy for me to hear the next story knocking. Whatever the reason could be, as I neared the final chapters, I found myself already starting to grieve. So much so, that once I’ve actually finished writing the whole thing, I couldn’t imagine starting another. At least not one with a plot waiting to unfold like this one did. It felt a little like leaving Narnia. There was a definitely a profound sadness that I truly, hadn’t anticipated. As though I was saying goodbye to a place I’ve never actually lived in, yet somehow called home. A world that truly only existed because I had imagined it into being. I never really realized that such a feeling existed for writers, since it wasn’t really talked about. As a reader, I’ve experienced it countless times: that quiet ache after finishing a book, when you’ve become so attached to its world that returning to your own feels strangely difficult. That feeling of closing the final page and knowing that, no matter how much you loved the story, you can never truly return to it in quite the same way. But I had never considered that writers might experiencing the same thing. Writer’s Grief, is what they call it, after I’ve done a little bit of research.
I didn’t know it was truly a thing. Perhaps because, usually, I’m quite skilled at moving on after finishing a story. There’s almost always another one waiting somewhere in the back of my mind, waiting to take its place. But this story was particularly different. It spoke to a part of me that no other story had before, partly because it was the first time I had woven so much of my real into something I had written. I had lived close to where the story was set—in St.Albans, England. I had walked its streets, knew what the small town felt like. Explored the different places myself, that I’ve written into this story. So naturally, when I began writing this story, all of that love and yearning found its way onto the page. Perhaps that is why I’ve felt the grief of finishing it more deeply than I expected. Because I wasn’t only saying goodbye to a story. In some strange way, I was saying goodbye to a piece of my own life that I had preserved inside it. They say that authors tend to experience a more profound sense of writer’s grief when it’s a story they’ve resonated with the most. One they’ve poured a little more of their heart and soul into than the others. It might not become their most-read story, nor their most successful, but that doesn’t necessarily make it any less meaningful. Because sometimes, the grief isn’t about how well a story was received. It’s about how much of yourself you left behind in it. There’s this strange feeling of having to readjust to your own days once it’s over. Waking up in the morning and realizing you no longer have to wonder how the next chapter will unfold. No more scenes playing out in your head while you’re in the shower, driving somewhere or trying to fall asleep. No more characters whose lives you’ve been quietly carrying around with you all day. Suddenly, there is nothing left to plot. And I think that, more than anything, is what makes the silence afterward so difficult to get used to. What about you? Have you ever grieved a story you’ve written, after it ended? If you have, feel free to tell me in the comments below. How did you learn to leave a world you weren’t ready to leave? What did you do? Sincerely, Cherie. PS: By the way, if you’re interested, I’ve attached the link to the story that practically destroyed me right here. (Though I’m planning to rewrite everything, but while it’s up, feel free to read it). The Whiffler is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell The Whiffler that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments.
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