I think the hardest thing to do, when writing, is to come up with the perfect ending. Did I say perfect? Maybe that word is a no-no, but it’s staying put.
No matter what is being written: an essay, poem, short story, novel, screen play, etc., all the words lead up to the last ones. There is a better chance the reader will remember the last sentence than a random sentence on page 42.
Maybe my conclusion stems from some vexing condition deeply rooted in my past, but it’s here to stay, so I’m learning to live with it.
If only that was my singular hang-up. But, alas, when you are shooting for perfection, the fear of imperfection rears its head…and then, starts barking at you. “I don’t think that was a strong ending…did it convey what you were going for…how are the readers going to feel about it…did you say too much or not enough…
At some point, you give the barking beast a treat and tell it to go lay down in the corner. And while its not looking, busy with other menacing activities, you type “the end.” Even if you have to fake some confidence, deciding you know exactly what you’re doing.
It has to end sometime. The editing, polishing and wrestling with the story has got to eventually come to a close. If there’s no ending, it halts new beginnings.
It won’t be perfect. Nothing out there is. But, I hope there is beauty in the imperfection, and another wonderful opportunity to forgive myself.