Somewhere in the murky depths of my muzzy psyche (made thicker by adjusting to new medication) I realised that I accidentally ended the Great Canadian Novel a month or so ago, four chapters before I ought to have ended it. By having my protagonist conquer a life-long obstacle, I really can’t go any further; everything would be anti-climactic.

This explains my complete and utter disinterest in the storyline for the past while. Now that I’ve figured it out, I can move the Significant Triumph out of the narrative and into a file marked “Grand Finale”, and get on with creating four new chapters exploring other things leading up to it. I had the right idea, just at the wrong time.

Speaking of timing… maybe I ought not to be reading biographies of crippled and/or unstable artists and writers as I come out of a stretch of working with an osteopath to make friends with my spine again and trying to pull things together after a burn-out. Dash it all, though, Frida Kahlo and Virginia Woolf are just so fascinating.