The Hardest Part

I'm mere chapters away from completing the initial draft of my novel.  And I'm finding it difficult.  It's got to be perfect, you understand.  Believable.  Exciting.  Fun and engaging yet steeped in tension.  I intend to drive the reader to tears, to shouts of joy, to wondering why they've bitten all the nails off their fingers.  And of course, to pondering the inevitable woes to come.  I think, for me, the ending is the hardest part.

I know what has to happen.  The goal is clear.  The climax and its aftermath are not in question.  It's simply a matter of getting the setup just right.  The beginning was easy.  And writing the middle was loads of fun.

You see, I'm essentially a discovery writer and offer no apologies for it.  Were I to treat my outline like the Gospel According to St. John or the Pentateuch then writing would be a chore or a (gasp!) job.  (I already have one of those and it pays better in a month than I'll probably earn in my lifetime as a writer.)

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres. (1842)

It amazes me.  All I need to start a story--even a novel--is a simple line of dialog, or possibly a stimulating opening statement without a clue where it will lead.  Two little words launched this current NIP (novel in progress) of mine.  Oh, if wrapping up all the loose threads were as easy.

This is the point in my writing where my muse goes on vacation.  She's done her job.  She inspired.  She dropped impressive vistas, titillating events and dynamic characters right into my lap and let me play.  She smiled as I did so.  But she doesn't write the book.  She doesn't dig plot.  She cares little for consistency.  And she despises grammar.  All that, she leaves to me.

I hear many say they can never get started or they become mired in the muddle in the middle. Some complain of writing themselves into a corner or of losing inspiration or enthusiasm.  I'm sure I'll experience all these hindrances at some point.  I haven't really done so yet with this book.  For the most part it's flowed like a serene stream.  At times it's been a rushing river.  Of course there have been times when I crawled and clawed my way through scenes or meandered at plot detours or fiddled with a setting until I could get it just so.

Now I must master the mechanics.  Now is when the skill must arise.  To reuse my previous metaphor, I'm at bat.  The bases are loaded.  It's a full count.  And the pitcher is winding the payoff pitch.  Will I choke?  Will I swing and miss?  Will I stand idly by and watch the ball sail perfectly through the strike zone?  I'm being sifted and measured.  Do I have what it takes to knock it out of the park?

My epic fantasy needs an epic climax.  Perhaps an epic climax requires an epic struggle on the part of the writer?  I think that before I'm finished, the fingertips without fingernails will be my own.

Is this a dilemma unique to Jeff-the-aspiring-novelist?  Care to enlighten this suddenly frightened writer?  Have any insights or recommendations you'd care to share?  I'll let you borrow my muse. :)