For the purpose of making my life easier whilst editing this beast of a novel (well, not so much beast as small, furry, slightly feral animal), I’ve created separate documents for each of my chapters, and organisational measure that also has the advantage of making me look wonderfully prolific. Yesterday I finished editing chapter 15, and when I closed up that document to open up the next chapter, I realised that I was on to the last chapter of the book. I rather impressed with this, as this meant that I was not only prolific, but also productive!

Except, of course, for the fact that that final chapter contains thirty thousand words. At some point, the Hyde of me had usurped the Jekyll, and had thrown chapter-making caution to the wind.

Thinking about it, though, it makes sense, as the last thirty thousand words are the apex, the climax, the snowy tip of the writerly Everest that every writer wants to get to–and then the race back down. The first two thirds of the books, then, are the slow, steady climb where you have frost-red cheeks and that feeling of anticipation (or, given the theme of this book, trepidation) over reaching the top, and about the potentialities involved in the descent.

Given that I seem to be in the grips of some glorious, sniffly illness, perhaps I should stop faffing about on the top of the mountain and head back home. (And then, in the name of quality assurance, do it all over again.)