As some of you know, I've been working on and off on a a novel titled "The Bone in the Digester" for years. YEARS! The files have been migrated through at least 3 computers, through various formats. I was ever so glad I hadn't got rid of my old cube, since the text was in a proprietary format my newer computers couldn't read.
The story has grown and changed. For a long time I didn't know if I had a love story, a mystery, a techno-thriller, a police procedural, or what. It's really a door that opens the world to 3 other novels. Or I suppose more accurately, one really long one, and one somewhat short one, all interconnected in a complicated way.
I wrote much of that really long one in a huge NaNoWriMo session a couple years ago, and it's been expanding and growing as well. It's called "The Sweet Elixir".
But I can't go straight from "Bone" to "Elixir" the way I had. So I chopped the messed end off of Bone and rewrote it. Which means I need a new ending for Bone so it is it's own story. I've mused with a couple endings, and I've known the data behind the ending. That got written, but it's a classic example of telling, not showing. Limp as an overcooked noodle.
Just the other day in the shower I figured out how to write the ending, and how to bridge from what I've got. I made some quick notes, and I'm sitting outside in beautiful weather, in the shade. Wine. So you'll excuse me please. I must write.
Oh, since you insist. A garden photo to hold you over.