Yesterday, I wrote ‘The End’ at—where else?—the end of a manuscript. I don’t usually write that when I finish something, but this one seemed to deserve the honor. To lay the groundwork, this manuscript has been the bane of my existence for the last two years. I actually reached the end of a rough draft nearly a year and a half ago, but there has been a lot of blood spilled in the rewrites (both on and off the paper). I considered writing other things at the bottom of the page as I went—things like Die You Monstrosity or I Give Up—but with a lot of support from my family and writing friends, I persevered.
I know it’s not really the end. There’ll be more rewrites, fine-tuning and tweaking once it gets back from the reviewers. Then start the query letters.
Here’s the really strange thing: On the way to The End I found out I kind of like this wounded woman who is the main character. I want to know if she and the keeper of a man she found actually make it.
Who knows? There might be another book in there. Maybe it’s not The End after all…