I'm coming to the end of the running book. Two chapters to go. Maybe three. They seem to sprout organically. Maybe about 10,000 words, max. Weird things happen so close to the finish line. Sentences and words from a few hundred pages appear to me in the night, demanding I add a sharp fact or witty clarification. I pull out the Notes app on my phone and write them down then go back to sleep. But mostly I want to slow the pace and enjoy the last days of this project.
I dream of the chapters just written this weekend as I chase my deadline, relieved they are done but knowing I need to give them a sharp edit before I can put a check mark next to them on the butcher paper hanging on my office wall. The outline is written there in Sharpie, though the chapter titles and their contents have changed dramatically since I first drew it up at Christmas.
I'll finish the book today. The back matter can wait — acknowledgments, sources, etc. I desperately want to nail this first draft and spend a few weeks clearing my head with time in nature. But there's something about this process that makes me want to linger a little bit longer with these final chapters. I feel protective of the words and want to dress them up a little more with qualities like clarification and nuance.
But it's time to say goodbye. And so I will later today. Maybe.