The end didn’t come in the expected manner. There was no revelatory moment at my desk when I typed the last word and celebrated and phoned friends and family. I write nonlinearly, so after weeks of frustration and countless cups of tea, all the while lamenting my stalled progress, I went for a walk at a nearby park, and as I was rounding a bend in the dirt path, I realized my book was finished. The end of the story seemed to need the quiet, solitary realization required to write it.
For several weeks, I’ve been working on revisions, and soon those, too, will be complete. Then querying and rejection and hopefully someday representation and publication. But, for now, I want to revel in this moment of immense gratitude and accomplishment because I finished writing a book that for more than a decade was little more than an idea I kept to myself.