A Last Sentence

I came up with the last sentence of my novel on Tuesday. It’s not the ending of Gatsby, but it works in the context of the story I’m telling. As I admitted to Fred and Jon on Sunday evening, I am at my worst as a writer when I am trying to be profound. I’m at my best when things just happen, when sentences and paragraphs just fall out of me. And that’s what happened on Tuesday. Walking back to work from a lunch break spent perusing the shelves at Barnes & Noble, I happened to be lost in a sea of thoughts about the book when the sentence just appeared to me out of the ether. It was kind of profound, and kind of touching, but most of all it was true. It was true in the context of the story, and that’s what you really want out of a last line, something that allows you to put down the book and feel satisfied.

No, I’m not going to share it with you now. Because, in the end, it might change. It might not be the last line, it might not even be a line at all. Who knows what’ll happen to it? But right now it feels right. And it’s those small victories that a writer in my situation must savor. If things are going to come piecemeal, then bits and pieces like this are all you can hope for.