It’s a true story. I know how it ends, but I can’t move forward. The last twenty pages are as weighty as a boulder, as immovable as a broken vault door. My heart refuses to face the acrid, bloody truth, to acknowledge the twisted metal and shattered dreams. His unwritten novels poke through the years like torpid headlights in a fog. Am I a horrid person for lamenting the tragedy of lost words?
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea.
Not just a blog, a philosophy
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 
It sounds like you are facing an abyss, maedez.
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It’s not that melodramatic, is it? I’m just having a hard time finishing the last 20 pages of a biography. I mean, I already know how Nathanael West died, and it wasn’t pretty. 😦
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Once the 20 pages are written – it is done. Over. There will be nothing left. Is it the bloodshed of the ending that fears you? Or the loss?
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To clarify: this isn’t something I am writing but, rather, a biography I am reading. My lament was simply over the fact that he died young, tragically, and with much left to write. It is the latter that I mourn the most.
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A few years ago I read a biography about someone who died hundreds of years ago and, when I finished, I was full of sorrow. This person had been dead for CENTURIES, and I’m moping about like I’ve just lost my best friend. To me, it was a tribute to a book well written, and a remarkable life lived.
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I totally understand, as I am in the habit of getting way too attached to dead people. Especially creative types with the odds stacked against them.
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