I love ending a story.
Because eventually you reach a space where it’s the point of no return. You’ve been building. And building. Climbing the hill. Worrying at the bone with your teeth. And suddenly it’s all there. You can only go down. It all comes together how it has to come together and —
Well, use whatever metaphor you like.
Roller coaster cresting a hill.
Throwing up and purging after a long night of feeling like shit.
The climactic ejaculation — the blog-titular “mighty endjaculation.”
You either get there or you don’t. If you get there, you know it adds up. Maybe it’s not good, but sweet fuck, it adds up. And it happens fast, too. You have momentum. You use gravity. That’s the best part about writing an ending, or even a whole third act. No more confusion. Only a kind of weird eerie purity. The way is clear. Run, fuck, kill, or die. You’ve already jumped off the bridge. Now all you gotta do is fall.
It happened when I finished Blackbirds. I hit the last act and it all just burped out of me.
It happened when I finished the script for HiM. We knew where it needed to go and how it was going to happen and when the time came to bang it out, those last days of writing I was hitting 10, 15 pages a day.
It happened just now, 20 minutes ago, when I finished Double Dead.
Wrote 4k day before yesterday. Wrote 4k yesterday. Today? 7k.
Double Dead is double done.
And by “double done” I mean “not actually done at all.” This is just the first draft. I gotta do a pass. Editor’s gotta do a pass. Writing is rewriting, after all. But I will say, it feels good. I’m happy. For today, at least. And I’m going to run with that. Run with it all the way home, cackling, giggling, doing cartwheels. Metaphorical carthwheels. If I tried to do the real thing, I’d break my fool neck.
For now, I breathe a big giant exhalation of air.
Who wants some whisky?