Endings are an exciting contradiction. You work your butt off for months (maybe even years), and you can't wait to celebrate the final polish, the concluding tweak. At last, you're done. Maybe you're ecstatic, prideful, immensely satisfied. Or perhaps you're one of those folks who wouldn't find satisfaction with a Nobel Peace Prize. Either way, what's done is done, and now we all face the inevitable question: What now?
For good or ill, that's a question a novelist never has to face. There's the editing, the cover, the blurb, the marketing plan, the publishing format, the launch, the blog, the newsletter, the social media contacts, the ads, and on and on it goes. There's always a ridiculous list of what-nows - most of which don't involve writing. That makes the ending of writing a novel bittersweet. As long as I'm not there yet, the what-nows can be put off.
As I write this, I am within a couple weeks of the ending for the second book in my four-book series. In sports terms, I'm nearing halftime. A very LONG halftime. I'd love to have the financial luxury of shoving the book off to paid editors and proofreaders, cover designers, and publicists. Until the time when sufficient money drops from heaven and fills my coffer, I'll remain in DIY mode. And excitedly dreading the final page.