My first draft of Mona Lisa's Room is done. I'd barely typed the final period before self-doubt came knocking at my door. "Your ending sounds kinda lame," she stated, picking a piece of broccoli from her snaggle tooth. "I'd rethink it if I were you."
I can't stand that arrogant witch.
So, I laid awake last night, wondering...
I'd set up things for 3 possible endings, a tiny hint here, a little reference there. Why I chose the ending I did was simply based on what I'd felt at the time. Pantser that I am, I have no better reasoning process.
Still, I wrote on, enjoying the learning process of stretching my boundaries. Writing romantic suspense and getting that delicate balance of romance and intrigue was a challenge. Whether I achieved that balance remains to be seen. No doubt Dawn Dowdle, my agent, will have much to say about that. Nothing much gets past her.
Writing the story was a fun process, revisiting the city I love so much. Paris is a delight. In less than four months I'd written over 90,000 words. In a few days, after I let the manuscript perculate on the back burner of my brain, I'll start editing it. I'll see then how many of those 90,000 are good words. By the time I get done paring and shifting and deleting, I might have 80,000 passable words. One never knows.
For now it's the ending that bothers me. I've been obsessing about it all day. Did I write a good one or not? Should I have chosen one of the other endings I'd so carefully set up? Truthfully, it seems like a Micky Mouse kinda ending.