I had vague thoughts of doing some kind of useful wrap post here—maybe talk about how far I’ve come since Digger started, although honestly, I mostly find myself thinking of the difference in the view from my desk, between that tiny little rat-hole apartment in St. Paul, with my back wedged against a dying radiator and a view of the basement through a hole in the floor, to this spacious room half a continent away with the sun streaming through the window.
I am a little sad, but not as crushingly as I expected. Digger has been over in my head for awhile now, and all the various voices had quieted down awhile ago. They’d offer dialog if I poked them, but I was no longer taking dictation in the shower. So it’s a good time to end.
Last night Kevin and I had cheap sushi and cheesecake and gin, and I didn’t wake up with any deep black gulf of despair in my head screaming “OH GOD, WHAT DO I DO WITH MY LIFE NOW?!” And then a truck pulled up with my mountain of mulch being delivered. And now I figure that probably the best way to celebrate the end of something like Digger is to move dirt around.
And in answer to all the readers who said “But–what happened to THIS character?!” the answer is that they went on and lived their lives as they saw fit, and if they have not since died, they are living there still.