With every book and story I write, I reach a point where I’m about ¾ finished and suddenly the end is in sight. That’s a great moment. For a moment. Last night I told Mighty Reader that I was writing my way through the turning point of the current novel, and I thought I’d be finished with this draft in October sometime.
“That’s good,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Now that I can really see the story written down in its broad sweep, I’m having doubts about it. Sometimes I think it’s really dumb.”
Mighty Reader looked at her watch.
“You’re right on schedule,” she said.
It’s that part of the process I loathe the most, where I know I’ll finish the book and fear that when I have finished, I’ll have written a very stupid book. Part of me wants to race ahead and get to the end and part of me wants to drag my feet and delay the inevitable moment when I realize how stupid I’ve been to waste the last six months on this steaming pile of prose. This is the absolute worst part of the process for me, and right now I’m twitchy, irritable and prone to arguments with friends and strangers alike. Mighty Reader, I must point out, is one patient woman to put up with my moods during this phase of the writing. No doubt she’d point out that I am just as moody when I haven’t been writing, and I’m as much of a pain in the ass in all the other stages of the work as I am now; I just don’t happen to notice it. Like I say, she’s patient.
So today I’d like to just thank Mighty Reader for her infinite understanding and remind you all to thank the Mighty Reader in your own lives, whoever that might be.