All I'd wanted for so long was for someone to explain everything that had happened to me in this same way. To label it neatly on a page: this leads to this leads to this.
Because now, I didn't care what they thought. It wasn't new, this realization that I would never be like them. What was different now was that I was glad. Macy page 199
But it was too early to know: there were always more pages to go, more words to be written, before the story was over.
Like a blinking cursor on an empty page, it was just the first thing. The beginning of the beginning. But at least it was done.
An ending was an ending. No matter how many pages of sentences and paragraphs of great stories led up to it, it would always have the last word.
Like a word on a page that you’ve printed and read a million times, that suddenly looks strange or wrong, foreign. And you feel scared for a second, like you’ve lost something, even if you’re not sure what it is.
Editing is hard but nowhere NEAR as tough as facing that blank page and blinking cursor each day. You're all alone and no one else can do it. At least with editing you have someone in the trench with you.
I think whenever a writer is really enjoying themselves and liking what they are doing, that shows on the page.