I said in a previous post that I did not know what my ending would be. Well, here I am at the end, and just as I thought, I’m lost.
This happens to me in just about everything (with a plot) I’ve ever written. Short stories or novel length, I get close to the end and can only seem to figure out the story one line at a time. And even then, I will write so many different versions of the ending that it feels like I spent just as much time on the last two chapters as I did on the first twenty. Right now I’m at the beginning of this process, with pages of writing I know will be heavily reworked or completely tossed out.
For me, finding the true ending only comes after making a series of mistakes. False starts, cross outs, deleted chapters, and probably a notebook chucked across the room. Eventually I’ll find it (I think), maybe on my own, maybe with help from a reader who’s willing to look at this sloppy patched-together mess. But I’ll get there (hopefully) and it will be great.
And then I’ll realize I have to change the beginning to make it work. (It never really ends.)