Oh, Stephen King. He’s so great except that he doesn’t know how to end things.
If you’ve said it once, you’ve heard it a hundred times.
Except, I get it. Fuck ending things. It’s hard. Some shit has to happen that is somehow greater than what’s come before but in line with it. I want to grab my manuscript, my first shitty draft, by the lapels and shake it and demand it tells me how the fuck it ends.
Also, I’m feeling better, but god damn. I wasted a whole fucking lovely weekend feeling like crap, complaining about Yeats biographies, reading Irish poetry, andfailing to write this god damn ending. Maybe it can just be 140,000 words long. The last seventy thousand words are just me dragging shit way the fuck out.
Also, everyone has the same fucking names.
I hate it. It’s horrible.
And yet, when I finish writing this post, I’m going back to it.