"The End."



I believe those two words, at this moment, hold more emotion and meaning for me than any others I've written. They represent time and energy expended. They carry the weight of my expectations and my fears. Those two words mean the end and the beginning.



I finished my manuscript today--well, I finished it at 5:43 a.m., after writing furiously all night. After one year and one week, my creative endeavor is complete. I have told the story.



The work is not done, of course. I still must revise and edit, tweak and adjust, worry and massage the words I've written. The story is not ready for the world yet, and making it ready will be no small feat in itself. More time, more energy, more expectations, and more fear. But I have told the story.



When I started telling this story, I had a plan. The plan involved writing a book in about two or three months. After health issues intruded, I went to plan B. Six months. Writer's block. Nine months. Work. Ten months. Health issues. Twelve months. Things got in the way, and I got in the way. Maintaining momentum is hard, especially when you aren't really sure you have what it takes. The initial excitement loses out to monotony, focus fades, and doubts creep in. I'm actually surprised I found the determination to fight through. I have persevered and told the story.



The end of the story means I have accomplished something new and know now I can accomplish much more. The End means far more than I imagined those two words could.