I was chugging along nicely with this story and now. It fizzled. Not a sagging middle, more like an irksome ending.
The action is done but I can't just write THE END because there are too many unfinished bits. Tying up? Bleh. Black moment? Worse. I swear if I throw in anything more for that stupid required black moment (I KNOW it's not actually required, o my fellow rioters, I KNOW.) it'll be a giant bowl of nonsense. I enjoy overkill as much as the next person, but only when it feels like naturally occurring overkill. Not overkill that just wandered onto the scene waving a gun.
On the other hand, right now everyone's just wiping his or her hands saying, "okay then! Back to life, shall we?"
And to make matters worse, my writing goddess has decided to go back to school. She's reading that thing about whales -- have you seen the great white?
My sister thinks she's allowed to have a life, too. I'd ask Beth but she fell asleep two pages into the last ms.
Sigh. Oh, and one of my characters is currently suffering with bout of self pity that rivals my own. Maybe that overkill with a gun would be a good idea after all.