The final chapters. Once I’d begun, I couldn’t stop until I’d graced those final pages; filling them with closing words, the character’s last thoughts and actions. And then, at roads end, at half past midnight, I’d finished.
I sat in the old brown chair, worn from sun and child’s play, in a half kneel, laptop rested on the arm. The prose wasn’t blooming, plenty of time for all of that; what I wanted was completion – the deadline fabulously flunked – and couldn’t wait a minute longer.
The last paragraph took nearly an hour; I couldn’t see for the tears. Was it really happening? Was I really coming to the end of the story. There’s a certain magic about the first draft; writing yourself into the narrative, meeting your characters, creating this other world… a brave new reality.
And now, a break for a few weeks or so.
What will I find in the reread? I hope a story.