When a Book Won't Go Away

Canva. A picture of pink cherry blossoms in bloom.

Book endings have never been an issue for me as a writer. The idea for a book usually comes to me as a first line. Then I see the ending because I believe with all of my soul that you end where you begin. If you don’t, there better be a good reason.  

Killing Me won’t end. I’m five thousand words over the target. There will be so many darlings to delete. But I’m willing to keep churning through the mist in hope of finding the beginning in the ending.  

If you start in a snowstorm, you finish in a snowstorm. This kind of bookending is satisfying for a reader. Your audience can see how the arc of the book taught our heroine/hero and how much they’ve grown since the first time they were in a snowstorm. Simple to do, right? 

Photo by David Bartus: https://www.pexels.com/photo/photo-lavender-flower-field-under-pink-sky-1166209/

My issue might be that I’ve started the book in the wrong place. Happens all the time. Each time I do an editing pass, I refine that beginning, which then changes the ending. That hasn’t been a problem for me. That’s fixable. I can handle fixable. 

What I can’t seem to get a handle on is how to get my blasted characters where I need them to be. The ending stretches out like splintering glass. Some pieces have fallen out and I need to glue them back. It’s not working right now.  

I’ve been doing the writing every day for ten minutes. The words tumble out, but there are too many of them. Action is my thing. Go. Go. Go. This ending is a triumph if I could just maneuver the two of them into the blocking I had set up months ago.  

Kimberly Butler. Hot pink gerber daisy.

The dogs abandon me. I’m so tense and frustrated. My muse sleeps in the other room on a giant dog bed made for spoiled pups. They are. Spoiled. What I need them to do is give me some magical writing mojo.

I’ve employed strategies I’ve never had to resort to. I bought a gift for myself, but I’m not allowed to open it, touch it, smell it, taste it, breathe on it until I end this book. I'm staring at it now. I really want it. But I’ve still not typed the end. And I don’t care what people say, I’m typing the end this time. I won’t leave it there, but I’m going to write it. I’ve earned it.  

This was an odd book. Not something I’d normally write. Maybe that's the issue. When you get out of your comfort zone, it causes you to access a part of yourself you’d like to leave hidden. Writing is so vulnerable. It’s like as an author you put on a t-shirt with a target on it and let people hit you repeatedly with their thoughts on what your thoughts are. Ouch.  

This book may remain in my “I wrote it, but I don’t think it’s good” file. That’s okay. But it can’t go there until I type the end. I don’t leave books undone. Not when I’m within a thousand words or fewer from the bloody ending.  

I’m going to go turn on a timer and see if I can knock some words out. Wish me happy writing!