Today, I'm chasing the paper tails of plot kites, flying in all directions. I know I don't have to-shouldn't-wrap every thread woven through my novel into a tidy bow. Real life isn't like that. Fiction shouldn't be either. But which to grab?
Today, I'm on the romantic fiction playground. There is a long history of rules laid forth by the women and men who've played here before me. It's a delicious confection of happily ever after where kites soar in optimistic skies. It is a gift of hope and the staggering power of love to a reader who, in the face of extreme personal challenges, needs something to believe in. One last scene to cinch the bows, finished.
Tomorrow, I step off the playgound for another less structured, less defined place where rules are meant to be broken and all is not what it seems. Where some strings slip away and we're left to make sense of our own lives and perceptions.
I don't know which final scene will remain. It will be up to those far more versed in the market. Maybe some day, grist for fan trivia (one can only hope).
Tomorrow: The End