I don’t do spring cleaning. Spring is the season where the flower orgy slowly tries to kill me with it’s pollen. I pop pills daily and hiss at the idea of being outside. It’s not my thing.
I do, however, do autumn cleaning. For about a week every year; when the vestiges of summer slink away in the wake of brisk autumn breezes, I throw open the windows and get to scrubbing.
Outside of that week I am prone to papers, mail, books, notes, and magazines piling up on every available flat surface my house has to offer. I’m not a hoarder, I have no desire to keep these things. I just sort of set them down and forget about it.
It’s also a great way to distract myself from the fact that I’ve only written about a hundred more words. Ugh. I know I poked at this yesterday but seriously, this is driving me close. I’m so damn close to being finished that I can taste it and my brain is not complying with me. What this has meant is that I am pushing back my personal release date to early next year. I had hoped to be done by Christmas.
My other issue is…I’ve decided that I hate the ending to my story. I feel that I wrote what I did because it mirrored what I had read rather than what I really feel would happen between the characters that I have created. I’m seriously going back and forth between re-writing it and keeping it.
On the one side, when your story fits into a specific genre, certain things are expected. If it’s mystery you find out who killed what and when. If it’s action they defeat their enemy, often with explosions. If it’s romance the main characters eschew whatever it was that was causing their problem and live happily ever after.
It’s tedious, but a lot of avid readers of the genre feel cheated if things don’t go this way. I’m torn and I don’t want my debut novel to be poorly received. Ugh.