I started to see a way to end my book, but to get there will require the funeral/memorial scene to be an emotional climax. It’s hard to write this stuff, and just as hard for me to share it.
Molly felt the tightness in her throat climbing up the back of her tongue. Her eyes clouded over with tears, and she squeezed them shut. Her nose burned with the rush of blood through capillaries and hot air pumping from her lungs. She began to sob uncontrollably.
She had never felt so alone and isolated. All those years of standing on her own in a crowd had felt empowering. She was special and unique in a magical way, beyond human understanding, and it had given her strength to think of it as a blessing to be different. The others were so weak in their dependence on each other, so incomplete and imperfect. She could go anywhere and be with anyone and yet remain unchanged. She was constant, entirely self-contained. Until now. Where was her center now? Where were her borders?
She missed her mother more than she ever thought possible. This was not like being homesick. This was not like wishing she could share a funny story with her mother and having to wait until after school to see her again. This was forever, cut off from the root which can never grow back. How could there be a hole left behind in what was already empty?
I cried a little bit, writing that. Wasn’t this supposed to be a fun way to spend a month instead? I’d rather go back to my other plot, my other character, the detached reporter investigating an anomaly, but I was just spinning my wheels with that device, making no progress. The path I’m on now leads to a more spiritual ending than I had originally intended, but I may have no choice. Without an ending, this has been a lot of painful work for nothing.