The End of the Novel - Summer Must End

I know I've been very quiet - for almost two months, in fact - but I've been busy. Summer Must End is in the final furlong. I'll finish it by next weekend.

When I started this book on September 6, 2009, I'd already been composing in my head for months. I knew how it would end. I always know how my books will end, like Stephen King, with whom I share that particular approach. I don't start a book until I have the ending. But getting to that end is the thing - that's where all the exciting, unplanned things occur.

When I write (and I've mentioned this before), I quickly work on each chapter, getting down everything I feel  I need to say at that moment, and later - the same day, or the next morning, whenever - I carefully edit the draft, and move on to the next segment. When that chapter is complete, I go back to the very beginning, because ideas and dialogue are constantly coming to me during the time that I'm not physically writing, roughly scribbled on scraps of paper, and they now need to be inserted. Another careful proofread (well, as careful as any normal person manages) and I'm on to the next chapter. And so on. So what started out as (say) a 10-page chapter becomes 14 pages, perhaps, and the manuscript is becoming the final draft with each re-read and tweak.

The point today is that I'm about to start that final chapter. This one is the payoff - this is what writing all the other 90,000-plus words was leading to, and I'm both excited and relieved. There will be more inserts, of course, before this thing is ready for an agent. No doubt I'll even be tweaking it after I've made my move from Canada. But it will be ready for my trusted critics, those dear friends who again could take the time to give me their own opinions on it. I can only hope they love it as much as I do. It's my homage to Ontario. It's my farewell to Canadian rural life. I leave here at the end of September.

Sometimes when I'm deeply immersed in the work (or is that submerged?),  I find myself wondering if my un-writerly life is going okay. I work on average 5 hours a day, skipping some days to do the usual chores, and then I feel as if I've just returned from a trip, because writing the story, being surrounded by all these characters, genuinely makes me feel as if I've been away. I look at my cats, and wonder if my occasional cuddles in the evening have been enough. Are they feeling neglected?  Baby and Jeevesie, I promise I'll make it up to you. (And soon you'll be chasing lizards together.)

I'll continue my blog, of course - more regularly, I hope - after my move to Sydney. For those of you who have hung in there with me, despite my long absences, I wonder if you'll detect a difference in my demeanor. The light is so different there, and it makes me different. Being so geographically remote, you tend to feel less involved with the world than you do in Canada. My thinking becomes lighter, less introspective and intense. What kind of novel might that produce?

What I haven't mentioned over the last little while is that two - yes, two - lovely agents are presently looking at my first two manuscripts, respectively. They both seem very upbeat about them, and the fact that they communicated this to me is, in itself, a wonder to  behold. We all know how very mysterious most agents appear to us, so this is almost miraculous - this one-to-one contact. I am practical enought to realize that It could come to nothing, which is my usual experience, but one never knows.

Summer must end, but perhaps we'll have an Indian summer. I always live in hope.

Talk to you soon.

Mature Approach to Writing, or has your alter-ego brat taken over?

Because I am in such a blue funk over this final part of Strachan, I'm neglecting my usual post today. It just wouldn't be right for someone in my irritable state to suggest to you guys how to approach writing, how to secure representation by a lovely agent, and to finally get published - all the while maintaining great joy and gratitude in your heart, when I'm anything but joyful and grateful right now.

I am just too bratty today.

I will finish Strachan this weekend, and I'll be all the nicer as a result, but, in the meantime, I'll sulk over the pages (this is not how it was meant to be in chapter thirty), and narrow my eyes at my heroine's latest thought processes (she's turning into a whiner - a bit like me, really). I long for the day when I shed no more tears over it, with all the loose ends tied up (but there are so many of them!) and can print the whole thing off for that final proofing. Whoever thinks writing is a great escape is crazy.

Oh, sure, at the start, creating all those interesting people, allowing them to weave some magic into your outline, letting them amuse you, surprise you - well, of course, that's fun. But the winding down part, the resolution of the story, the saying goodbye - this is not my happiest time.

So that's it for today. I'm not apologizing. I'm sure you've experienced variations on this theme at various stages of your own writing. I know my usual maturity and common sense are missing, but that goes with the territory this late in the game. All that's left is this demanding-child alter ego, wanting everything her way, stamping her foot for attention. I got news, kid. Come Monday, you're in bed without any supper...

For those of you at the I-can't-wait-to-see-what-happens-next stage of your book, have a wonderful weekend. For those struggling with closure, I hope you have icecream in the freezer.