The weird thing about finishing a trilogy is realizing the characters didn’t get the memo.
PRIMACY is done. The files are exported, the covers are live, the story has its ending. But my head still sounds like Berlin at midnight with wolves pacing, wires humming and ghosts of the people I made refusing to shut up.
You spend years in that world, and suddenly you’re supposed to move on. Write the next thing. Sell the current thing. Pretend the emotional hangover is just caffeine withdrawal. But...