Only an author would take comfort in such words. And for me, if all goes according to plan, in about six weeks I should have all the little bits of my current story all spelled out, ready for the triumphant "THE END" at, you know...the end. Yep. December 15--marked on every calendar I own with a big, red "D."
It's not going to be pretty.
Traditionally, for me, that long, long journey to "The End" takes place in a house full of pizza boxes, where children slide school papers under a closed bedroom door, and a husband wonders why his wife is taking beauty tips from Howard Hughes. OK, I exaggerate a bit. Sometimes we have hamburgers.
Right now I'm optimistic. The unwritten chapters are quite clear in my head, and as soon as I figure out exactly how the story's going to end, it should be easy-cheesy. (Speaking of cheese, I'll probably have entire meals made of those tasty orange squares!) Of course, that's what I thought a few months ago when I opened the first Word document. For me, really, ending a book is never easy. Never pretty. And sometimes, it's downright stinky. Some authors claim to have fallen so in love with their characters they hate to say "Good-bye." In my case, I'm pushing them toward the door, suitcases in hand, out to the taxi I ordered sometime last summer.
But the prize! Ah, the prize. One hundred thousand words piled high upon each other. Words that never before existed in just that pattern before. Brand-new sentences molded into dialogue spoken by newly minted people. Right now, though, I'm still Dr. Frankenstein, rummaging through the graveyard looking for those final scraps of inspiration. Finding bits and pieces every here and there, with no idea if they'll work together when I flip the switch. And, really, you can't flip the switch until you get to "The End," can you?
It's going to be a long six weeks, for me, and all who know me. I'll need tons of patience, prayer, and, quite possibly, a good shampoo.