Today I finished writing the ending of a short story I’ve been working on for the last couple weeks. There’s a kind of rush that comes at the finish, a wonderful feeling of having created something complete.
As I begin to write toward the end of a story I tend to slow down a little as if drawing in strength. There’s also a sense of not wanting the story to end, and of processing how it’s all going to play out. Then, as I get closer, sometimes I build up a furious momentum that won’t let up until I write the last sentence in a kind of triumphant frenzy of excitement, totally caught up in the events of the story, brought to tears even.
Writing is generally a slow process done in solitude, but there are times when it becomes like a beautiful, energetic performance. Your hand works as if it has a will of its own, caught up in the moment, the words flowing into your mind and then onto the page without hesitation or reflection. Until at last you write that last sentence, your hand can barely keep up now, like the final dramatic flourish of a grand symphony.