I didn’t set out to write stories in order to feel worse and worse every time I get to the final scenes. Why? Because masochism does not appeal to me. Neither does sadism, by the way. For some reason, I still carry around some naive notion of things working out somewhere, somehow, at least some of the time. Yet, every single time, the stories veer off to a place where no one will get what they want. Some will die in the process of trying, others will live on for another round of hanging in there. I’m bloody tired of hanging in there. I wish at least one of my characters would get bloody tired enough to make the fucking shit s-t-o-p. If only for one blessed moment that rates higher than all the dreck combined.
The little kid, you know? Who says: no, all the ugly stuff you’re telling me isn’t true. You may think it’s true, you may act as if it were true, but it isn’t and I refuse to play along.
Of course, the thought police goes to work because we are social animals and social animals must play by the rules. Whose rules? Majority rules. Says who? Says the majority. At which point, the little kid learns to shut up, or doesn’t, and the stories flow or freeze based on those decisions.
“Destructiveness is the outcome of unlived lives,” one Erich Fromm is quoted as saying. (On first typing, this came out as “outcome of unloved lives” which may be another way of saying the same thing). If there’s any truth to this, there’s an appalling number of unlived lives going on and/or exploding other people’s attempts at living.
Not that the good times don’t exist. Sometimes, they require a hell of a lot more focus and concentration than what Disney or Coutts-Hallmark have in mind in the feel-good department.
Final scenes. Writing as if this story just might stretch far enough to avoid having to write it again, and again and again. (Or, at least, writing it from another perspective, next time.)