I wrote another ending to my novel in progress the other day. I think this one might stick. Man, what a glorious, exciting, invigorating, disturbing, worrying day that once after wrote it. I was so excited as I wrote that I began vibrating inside. I want to believe that it’s a good ending — hey, I do believe it is — but until others read it and judge it, I won’t know. Or rather, it’ll always be good to me, but may not be good to others. That’s how reading goes.

The novel isn’t done. I’d become semi-paralyzed by thinking over the ending. I kept rolling it through my head, coming up with possibilities, and then shooting them down for different, valid reasons. The one that finally landed was a surprise but feels right. I hope it holds together through the editing, revising, publishing process.

Meanwhile, to finish the novel, I need to go back and write the climax. Sounds funny but that’s how it worked in the case of this book. Several different arcs need pulled together; in writing the ending, I saw how the arcs should be handled. Now to wrangle the words and make it work.

Okay, back to writing like crazy.