Woke this morning to about ten inches of snow covering everything in a white candy-like shell. Some writers find winter inspiring (Stephen King to name one) but I prefer hanging out with my muse in the tropics. So, after an hour of backbreaking shoveling (I know, I should buy a snowblower but what can I say, I'm old school) I'm now at my computer trying desperately to finish my latest novel.
The book is about 98% complete and ready to go except for the very last chapter. I just can't seem to write that last scene that will tie everything up and yet leave room for the next book in the series. Writing the end for me has always been the hardest part of novel writing.
With snow still blanketing outside and my road to civilization blended white with the rest of nature, I am effectively stuck. Time to light some scented candles, pull up all the shades, and allow the pale world to infiltrate my office. I dream of splashing wavelets and multicolored sunsets to draw my inspiration, but alas, the end must get written.
The book is about 98% complete and ready to go except for the very last chapter. I just can't seem to write that last scene that will tie everything up and yet leave room for the next book in the series. Writing the end for me has always been the hardest part of novel writing.
With snow still blanketing outside and my road to civilization blended white with the rest of nature, I am effectively stuck. Time to light some scented candles, pull up all the shades, and allow the pale world to infiltrate my office. I dream of splashing wavelets and multicolored sunsets to draw my inspiration, but alas, the end must get written.
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