Shooting the Rapids

I’m 75k words into my latest manuscript, and I am here, I’ve arrived, at the end. I can feel it each time I open the document, pulsing with energy before me. And yet . . .

I’m doing everything I can do to avoid writing these last 10k words even though I can see it all laid out before me. All the pieces are in place. I just have to sit. and. write. it.

But that’s easier said than done.

If you’ve ever attempted to finish a first draft before, you know what I’m talking about here. The pressure to sticking the landing at the end feels immense. Strong enough that I see many clients often rush through it and pull the final curtain too early or avoid it all together (let me start a new essay!).

In my novel writing class, I teach that writing the ending is like shooting the rapids. After the midpoint of the novel, everything narrows, the protagonist has less options, and they just have to get to still water without capsizing.

Visit here to read more of what I’ve written about endings in the past.

When the current picks up, the chapters get shorter, the sentences less careful, the whole thing pulling you forward faster than you’re used to moving. And the writers who get through it well aren’t the ones who paddle hardest. They’re the ones who stop trying to steer so much.

How’s this extended metaphor working for you here? Hopefully well, because there’s more!

A few things I tell my clients when they reach this point:

Don’t edit on the way down. The urge to go back and fix something—a name, a timeline issue, a clunky line—is loudest exactly when you should be ignoring it. Leave yourself a note, but keep going forward.

The messiness is the momentum. If your prose is getting rougher and your instincts are getting louder, that’s everything you’ve built finding its way out. Let it be ugly.

Watch for eddies. Those moments where you suddenly need to research something, or reread chapter three, or tighten this one scene first or just clean your toilet super quickly? Hi, procrastination. Notice it, name it, paddle through.

Write the feeling, not just the plot. In the last stretch, it’s easy to get so focused on resolving what happens that you lose what it should feel like. Before you write the final scenes, ask yourself: what do I want the reader to feel here, more than what do I need them to know?

And when you reach the bottom, expect the quiet. Finishing a draft often isn’t triumphant. It’s disorienting. A little hollow, even. That’s not a sign anything went wrong. It’s just what it feels like to step out of fast water.

You don’t steer the rapids. You stay in the boat.

We often hesitate and procrastinate because writing is hard, and yet, the funny thing is it’s also a blessing (as hard things often are). In three of my meetings this week with book coaching clients, all of the women admitted how grateful they were to have the practice of novel writing and their particular project in their lives. How returning to the work day after day, no matter what is happening in their life, the creative work of writing a novel gives them a sense of purpose and accomplishment.

And so we finish one so we can write the next, come what may.

ROUND OF APPLAUSE!

*I wanted to include a section of my newsletter to announce the publishing successes of clients and students (both present and past). Have an upcoming or recent publishing announcement? Send it my way, and I’ll share it here.

• Joyce Gerber published her contemporary romance She’s Taking a Break this spring.

• Katie Rizzo is publishing her memoir The Trimesters of Grief with Koehler books on October 6th.

LITSET UPDATES

• I have a few bits of exciting news to share with you coming up in my next newsletter! Stay tuned . . .

• I’m currently booking out for fall developmental edits. If you recently finished a draft of your book or are nearing the end (see above!) and know you want an outside pair of expert eyes on your work, reach out to save yourself a spot with me for this fall.

CREATIVITY THROUGH THE SENSES

See: I’ve only been in the mood for light rom coms these days it seems, and I just finished (re: cried my way through) Voicemails for Isabelle. It’s sweet and light, but hit me with a sick sibling, missing your sister, and San Fran nostalgia, and my eyes won’t be dry.

Hear: I listened to the audiobook of Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act. There are a lot of nice reminders for those pursuing any kind of creative endeavor here—nothing groundbreaking, but something nice to listen to in the background. It reaffirms that creativity is worth the time and effort.

Smell: The sea breeze when it reaches my house. Just knowing the ocean is close feels like a happy sigh.

Taste: My daughter eating a watermelon popsicle in the backyard, “Mmm, this tastes like a trampoline.” (Might the girl have synesthesia, I’m wondering?)

Touch: The squish of a jellyfish under my foot because the beach was littered with them, and my kids grossly insist on picking all of the dead ones up.