The sun is setting: the light spilling through my window is reflecting off of my striped shirt and onto my hands, giving them an eerie “changey-sticker” nimbus. Very cool.
This afternoon, the ending to my story popped into my head while I was “trying” to work on some thesis reading. Actually, I’ve discovered that a lot of my writing is done when I’m not actually writing, but when I am supposed to be concentrating on something else. Give me a boring lot of theory reading and, voila! An ending that has eluded me since I started the piece decides to make a timely (and welcome) appearance.
Usually, it’s the beginning that shows up, waves its hands, does a little dance; and, usually, I respond by saying that my dance card is certainly not full enough so I take its outstretched hand, and we start to tango.
Then we tango some more.
And some more.
In some cases, the ending is clear from the first bar: I know when the music will stop before I tap either one of my tootsies onto the dancefloor. But more often, I just start dancing, and hope I won’t end up like the wicked stepmother in that old fairy tale whose feet burn off as she dances herself to death.*
But today I’m dancing with glee — not to escape my scorching Converse — because the ending has graced me with its presence, pretty darn closed to fully-formed.
Now, to write it.**
*It is still entirely possible that this is the way I’ll meet my doom. But I’m willing to risk it. I’m a rebel, I know.
**The sun is almost gone now. No more changey-sticker hands (I know you were wondering about it).