I thought I had an insight into what was holding me up from finishing a story I’d been working on for months. I was obsessively rewriting the first part of the story and holding back on the final scene -- the scene which was the impetus for the story and the reason I was writing it in the first place. I’d planned that the story, set in Ireland, would end with my character deciding to end her marriage while touring the jail where Irish nationalists were executed in 1916. But instead of moving my characters to the dark mildew-smelling jail where I wanted them, I kept them touring the Emerald Island. There they stayed -- climbing cliffs, visiting pilgrim sites and drinking Guinness.
I kept my characters out of jail because my last two stories -- also with first sections rewritten dozens of times -- gushed out their final scenes with what I thought were perfect endings. In those stories, I’d trusted that when the time came to end the story I’d do it fast. And I did.
This Irish story was different, and while I waited for some magical flow that would finish it, I began to hate the over-worked early parts. That’s when I realized I couldn’t count on the ending coming when it was ready. I had to get in there and struggle with it -- fight for every sentence.
I kept my characters out of jail because my last two stories -- also with first sections rewritten dozens of times -- gushed out their final scenes with what I thought were perfect endings. In those stories, I’d trusted that when the time came to end the story I’d do it fast. And I did.
This Irish story was different, and while I waited for some magical flow that would finish it, I began to hate the over-worked early parts. That’s when I realized I couldn’t count on the ending coming when it was ready. I had to get in there and struggle with it -- fight for every sentence.
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