I can attest to the fact that the middle is the hardest part of writing a book.
Twice, I bounced off of the bulbous, gelatinous, engorged flesh of the middle of my novel and found myself sitting, dazed, at the very beginning once again.
Some people give up at the middle, sucked straight into the flabby belly of the story, never to be seen again.
With that encouraging metaphor, let us move on.
I at last punched through the lipidous fifty percent mark and found myself on a shaky path toward the ending.
Currently, I am still on that path.
A lot of the trouble I had before is not knowing what my ending should be. It’s no easy feat to push toward an ending when you don’t even know what that should be.
At this point, I have settled all of that. I know what I want to happen, who needs to be where, even basically how I want it to happen.
One optimistic writer hoped that the ending would draw him forward, a roller coaster to that final climax then POW the ride is over, please make sure to take all possessions before leaving.
That has sort of happened, but in fits and spurts, because now I face a whole new emotional battleground.
I’m actually going to finish this book and *send it out.*
The first manuscript I wrapped was sort of a sloppy mess and was a project I knew from the start would require years of work to settle. In the back of my mind, there was less pressure because I was not going to show anyone for a long time.
This time, I shall be casting my wordspawn out on the world shortly after wrapping this draft.
That is a gamechanger, apparently, as my emotion-wracked brain informs me as it hits the brakes on the creativity train.
I need to push through and just finish this thing.
Tomorrow, I’m going to do that.
Tonight, I sleep, communing with my pillow in preparation for the final scenes in the novel.