I am sitting in the lodge at the Bear Valley ski resort, typing away on my laptop to the brilliant glow of reflected snow. I am on the last chapter — the last few pages — of my book, and I find myself going at a sandcrawler’s pace, typing a word a minute, if not less. I hate writing endings! Some authors write them in the middle of their story, or before they even begin, but I save my mine until the absolute end. Writing an ending is like saying goodbye to a very close friend who I have lived with and slept with and bound myself to closer than two souls were ever twined. I know that no matter where our life paths go from here, I will never recapture the magic of these last few months together. Such an ending must be powerful, and poignant, and utterly fulfilling. Is it any wonder that I find myself playing staccato adagissimo on my keyboard against the white canvas of the mountains?
