The past two days, I've written in the vicinity of 13,000 words in Kissing Ellen King. I can see the ending now, and the path leading up to it, causing me to barrel my way down with the inertia of the Juggernaut. And a book I seriously thought I'd never be able to write is so close to being done.
Kissing Ellen King has been monstrously difficult. Though a work of fiction, there has been so much personal history intertwined in the narrative, that's it's been difficult to find a happy medium between truth and storytelling. When you're making something up, you can kind of float with it. The characters and places and events are constructs, and they're very adept at deciding their own fate. With history, there is a desire to be precise, and to do it justice by accurately capturing the emotions that were present. There is also the unenviable task of simply remembering enough to produce a relevant scene. And, of course, it is fiction, so truth does need to be warped to an extent, things need to take a different path.
In that sense, it's been easy to get caught up in the writing. Dropping the hammer on my protagonist, I found myself forgetting that I was merely acting as a scribe and started to feel like things were actually happening to me. The dread and impending doom that followed the character struck me down as well until I was able to step away for a moment and regain my bearings. It was both gratifying and terrifying. A testament to what I think is a remarkably real and raw story, and a frightening walk down some paths I left long behind, and others I never had the displeasure of traversing.
I'm attached in a way that has me finding difficulty in taking the characters where they need to go. It's funny because I said before that I can see the end, but at the same time I couldn't tell you what it will be. Happy or tragic? I have no idea. I'm assuming I'll know when I get there, which has always proven to be the case. I should finish this week. I can't wait to find out.