Strange New World, or Something

So. I've finished writing a book. I've written that statement several times in the past few days, I think in hopes that one of these times it will feel natural, not clangy and freaky and strange. I have said that sentence before, because I thought I'd finished books before, but this time I really did finish it, I think, because sometime on Saturday night I felt a door close and I have this urge to crawl into the back of my mind, pound on that door and scream, "WAIT A MINUTE!!!!!" I have no idea why I'm doing this. It seems somewhat perverse, though I'm not surprised I found a way to turn a happy moment into a panicked one. When I thought I'd finished a book before I had this immediate urge to shove it on anyone who walked by and then hold them prisoner in a corner until they'd read the whole thing so I could see if I was right, if it was really done. I'm still making my husband read it, and after every session I grill him relentlessly on character, backstory, pacing, setting, his enjoyment. (He's a saint.) But I've only sent it to one other person, and while I'm curious, I'm not exactly wishing her to flood back to me with comments, even good ones. And when I grill my husband, I keep waiting for him to tell me the flaws I know it's got to have, because I can't really be done. It doesn't feel euphoric – it does, but not the sort of rainbows and sunshine and children tossing rose petals euphoria I guess I was expecting. I thought I'd feel all satisfied and proud, that I would stand in some part of my brain and crow, "I have finished a book! I have arrived!" Instead I keep whispering it, or slipping it in so nobody notices. "Oh, and I finished the book." My father-in-law was proud, and wanted to know when I wanted to send it in. You know, I couldn't even feel the panic, I went so numb. It feels good to be done, validating, yes – but somehow this took me somewhere new, and I'm sort of standing in this new place blinking stupidly, unsure of where I am or how I got here or what I am to do now. I didn't bargain for that. I didn't think feeling really finished would make everything change – I thought that would come if I ever got a publishing contract, or if the story voices changed their pitch and I couldn't hear them anymore, or if . . . I dunno, I just never thought it would be that I finished yet another draft, looked back and saw that it was good, and suddenly there it was, done. But I guess it's true – I finished a book. I'll just say it fifty more times this week and see if by Friday I don't want to throw up immediately after I end the sentence.