Ending Pending

I used to build up momentum with a novel, adding a little more to my daily word quota every day till the final day was very likely crowned with 10,000 words. Then I would physically collapse. It's odd how physical a strain writing can be ... in the past I've found my legs give way, my back gives out, and I'm throwing up.

Anthony Burgess used to confess (or boast) to friends that he polished off entire novels inside two weeks. That's impressive, but for the fact that it always shows in the quality of the writing. I move much more gently now, keeping to a steady 1,000 words a day and taking weekends off. Tally that up by working days in a year and it's far more than anyone will ever publish, so it's quite fast enough.

My new book, Cromozone, has one scene left to write. I dropped into a tad of depression today, facing the end. This isn't an upbeat book, it's been tough to stay with at times, though the main character and narrator is a survivor. It remains to be seen whether others will see it as the positive book I view it to be. When writing I'm growing aware of what some others will likely say about it. One of the joys of writing is that a book is wholly one's own for a while, others don't dribble the poison of their opinion upon it. Early reactions to the book have been very positive, but I've had enough of my life's work damned by enough people to be partly sad a book will be going public again some time soon.

Enough of the worries though. The book is still mine, and the wonders of this final scene are yet to open in front of me. Time to get a good night's rest then wake up to cherish that experience.

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