*pinches bridge of nose, trying to come up with the right word*
*negates “shocking” as too extreme*
*begs off of “alarming” as too, well, alarming*
*drops head to back of couch and sighs, deciding to go with the rather boring word of…*
It was all rather surprising.
There I was, busily adding meat and manly fluff to Quiver. With two weeks left to go before the deadline, I was having no illusions of adding any extra scenes to my shockingly complete outline. I was concentrating on evening out each chapter’s word counts and focusing on issues of flow, when suddenly…
I was writing the end scene.
To most authors who are working with an ordinary operating system (i.e. a sane mind), I’m sure the big finale scene is rather thought out. Planned on, even.
Yeah, well. Let’s just say I do things a tad differently.
In my picture-perfect outline (which I still can’t believe I’ve got), all I’ve had written to describe the final scene was…. *coughs, sputters a bit*… well, was “the final scene.”
No grand coming together of story and men.
No intricately weaved tying together of subplots and plots.
Just “final scene.”
I always like to leave the very end to write until, well, the very end.
But not with Quiver, baby!
The end scene is now half-written, where I’m going is clear in my head and it is all rather… surprising.
Not about to kick a gift ending in the mouth, I’m running with it.