It’s such a peculiar feeling, when you’re finishing a story.
I now know how I want to end my novel. And that means a lot of letting go. I haven’t even fully considered it. My mind has been occupied in plotting the best story possible.
I know that when I finish writing the story, there’s still loads to do. I will tinker and polish, rewrite and pull my hair. But I know where I’m going to leave my characters.
I might have to add some scenes but it’s more likely I have to cut some, so these heads into which I have been stepping, these characters whose lives are much more interesting and important to me than my own, I need to let them go eventually.
A few days ago I realised that I’m going to be able to keep to my schedule. Mid January I planned that I’d set a deadline for this draft at the end of February. And yet I somehow assumed something would come up. I’d discover a plothole that needed some serious roadworks to correct. I’d come to a place and realise I was going in the wrong direction. The story wouldn’t be naturally pulling to a conclusion.
None of these things happened. I know now how my writing works. I know how to come to a logical decision with my outlining that leads to the next point and from there on up until to the very end. I have all my metaphorical ducks in a metaphorical row.
This weekend I need to tumble over the last dominoes and write the climax and then that’s it. There are two chapters left.
When I realised this, I felt exhilarated. But now it’s close to midnight and all I feel is a creeping sensation of loss. Maybe that’s also because that’s what the main character is feeling. And because it’s so late and I’m so tired. And I’m listening to Dvorak’s Lieder. And because it feels like an ending.
Anyway. I need to wake the cat who’s sleeping on my legs and get to bed so I can get up in the morning and get to work.