That feeling when you’ve spent months tossing balls in the air—in the form of subplots & character arcs—and now they’re all coming down, but they keep hitting the ground in the wrong order and bouncing away so you have to chase after them, and it’s supposed to LOOK ELEGANT.
I’ve written 200 short stories & a half dozen novels… but I’ve only written a novel longer than 80k once before, and tying up all the threads of a piece this large into neat little bows, without getting them tangled up in each other, seems to be a skill all of its own…
Writing the end of this book is breaking my brain. Too many characters… too many subplots… too many spatial dimensions in the universe that they’re in…
Tonight there will be new episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, Station 19, Picard, and the entire rest of Bojack Horseman… That’s a lot going on.
Oh right, and the final episodes of The Good Place are tonight…
I need to finish this novel so I can sink into watching all these awesome things…
The problem with writing a scene set in 9-dimensional space is that the constraints of linear time aren’t really a thing there… but my novel is still going to be experienced as a linear narrative by all of its 3.5-dimensional readers.
Gah. The characters in my novel are having so many feelings in these final scenes… I’m sick of writing about feelings. But blowing the universe up at the end, for no reason other than to stop writing about feelings, would probably be the wrong call for the book overall…