Been writing since last Friday, and I can’t tell you how good it feels, not merely for sitting in the chair and managing some novelistic work. There’s a familiar rhythm to this last section of The Hawk, due in part to something that emerged on Saturday morning as I wrote the last half of a chapter; a hawk appeared in Lynne’s backyard, not that I’d planned it to touch down. Again it graced today’s prose, and I’m taking this as a sign that for the most plotted ideas, a surprise can emerge like a blessing.
When I started Part Twelve, so many plotlines needed resolution, notes piling up at the end of the manuscript, and mentally I was overwhelmed in how to wrap all of them up! That feeling doesn’t exist now, not sure if it’s a hawk’s doing, ha ha, or just that I was putting too much pressure on myself. I should know better; a post-it note sits at the bottom of my monitor, which reads: It is wrong to force work. Rest until Eternal Life, flowing through veins, hearts and minds, bids you bestir and glad work will follow.
I added a smiley face at the end of that message, and should take heed of it more often. Even as a long list of chores sits at my right hand, this post take shape. Perhaps Part Twelve wasn’t the easiest of sections, but at least I’m in the correct frame of mind for Part Thirteen.
Which brings me to today’s title; maybe this novel’s conclusion is already halfway written, as if Part Twelve required an A and B. If that’s the case, B hearkens to previous pieces in this saga in how a hawk’s appearance is leading me to where the end actually lies. And that is a tremendously liberating notion! Yes, notes are good, but for me, writing requires an element of mystery. It’s no fun writing about what I know; the unknown is necessary to make me sit in the chair at all. And thanks ever so much to God for that unclear vista; in each day’s work, I step through the mist, much like what hovered over my neck of the Silicon Valley woods this morning. It felt cool, calming, and much like the beginning of this completion. Recently I took an evening walk, so enjoying autumn’s slow arrival. I pondered why this season feels so fresh, what with dead leaves piling under car wheels, dusty vehicles in need of washing, and it was that as a child, autumn meant a return to school, a new beginning. Spring doesn’t rouse that sense in me, instead fall promises cleansing rain, an end to hot weather, the cessation of the church season of Pentecost. I’m in no hurry for Advent, only wishing to revel in autumn’s pleasures. It was in this season when I started The Hawk. Boy, I sure hope it’s the one in which I write The End!