Right after I type the last period at the end of the last sentence of each of my novels, my fifth now, I stare at that sentence for a long time and wonder whether the novel is really, really finished, and I mean done, and if so how in the world did I manage to pull off another novel of 300 or 400 plus pages, manage to, day after day and year after year, drag my tired backside to a tired chair in front of my tired laptop to coax a story out of heaven knows what creative well, to connect the story-lines, the dates, the historical facts, mold believable characters with their own unique voices, I hope, who possess profundities worthy of sharing with readers. And then, my neurotic voice gravelly with doubt, I tell my husband that I might have finished my novel and how about going out to celebrate.