It’s not like I need a ticker tape parade or even a NASCAR-style champagne shower, but when I announce to my family that I have finished writing ANOTHER book, it would be nice if they would at least look up and make eye contact. Instead, my husband said, “That’s nice,” while flipping channels. My daughter at least showed a spark of interest when she asked me how many people die in this one.

Yes, NaNoWriMo is over for another year. My winner’s T-shirt is ordered, my certificate suitable-for-framing is waited to be framed. And for those of you who conspire with my daughter, only one person died in this one.

When I complained about the total lack of adoration I received over my announcement, my husband had the nerve to say, “Well, it’s not like you haven’t written, like, five other books, right?” That wouldn’t sting so much if not for the fact that I’ve written eight. But hey, anything after the first three is apparently just showing off. Looking at you, Stephen King.

So now, it’s off to edit, find proofreaders, find real editors who work for pay instead of iTunes gift cards, and prepare for book number nine. I’ll be sure not to wake them when I finish next time.