Presumably typing "The End" for a new novel spells exhilaration for authors. Frankly, it's never done this for me (just as I've never thrilled to holding one of my books). Invariably, there are so many things left to do before the book goes in the mail. In my case, there a few loose ends to check, a historical note to write, a neat quote to find, a map to draw. None of these pleases me. They are chores. So I'm depressed.
I'm even more depressed by the thought that this book may never see life. It's number eight in the Akitada series which was cut off cruelly after number six. There are ways for protagonists to die without the author's intention.
Number six was an incredibly sad book, and number seven traces the ravages of grief in the protagonist's family, but this book, by God, ends with the poor man experiencing absolute and perfect happiness.
It probably won't last. Nothing perfect in life lasts, but I could wish that he might really have his moment in a real book.