Today, I’m wrapping up my short series on Endings and The End with a piece I wrote back in 2010. It is contemplative and a bit resigned. Because as I wrote it, I knew the end was near. In more ways than one.
You’ll find a short series recap at the end (hehehe, no pun intended). Thank you for your patience. This article was due last week, but my ND/HSP/ADHD mind rebelled. And as we’ve discussed before, I’ve learned to let it. Or at least, not fight it.
I hope you enjoy. And please, hit that ❤️button and drop your thoughts in the comments.
This piece was written March 28, 2010.
It’s raining again. Sometimes I wonder if, like the Light of Zartha in Men in Black II, it rains because I’m sad or depressed. Or, is it the other way around? Depression was barely in my vocabulary, much less life, until the last few years. My natural state of Be-ing is upbeat and positive. But at times like these, I feel like I have been wrestled to the ground.
Uncle already.
Last night, I couldn’t sleep. Probably that two-hour nap I took in the middle of the day because I couldn’t seem to keep my eyes open. Or maybe it was eating so late. Regardless, it was 3ish before my meditation tape did its job and lulled me under.
As I lay there in bed, tied to the proverbial stake like Joan of Arc, the flames of my decisions attacked me from all sides. Unlike Joan, the heat didn’t kill me.
I was left to the mercy of those horrible, biting flames.
I am writing a novel. Did I tell you? They say that as the author, it is my job to make sure the heroine, or main character, suffers. Right now, I’m a bit stuck, because I just don’t want to do that. I like happy. [This is an as-yet unpublished rom-com that I wrote before the Awen Trilogy.]
I can’t help but wonder if my own suffering is a divine ploy, designed to force me to allow hers. If this is how it is for writers universally, I feel bad for Stephen King.
He’s earned every shekel.
Last night, I watched the movie King of California. [Now streaming on Prime.] In it, Michael Douglas plays a mental patient who is sprung from his most recent institution. Believing he’s learned where Spanish gold is buried, he convinces his 16-year-old daughter to help him find it. The movie itself is offbeat and touching. But the California scenery made me ache for home.
Why is it that even though you think you know, you don’t truly know, until something you love is gone? I mean in your bones. In your guts. In every cell of your Being.
I thought I could come back to Georgia. And be gloriously happy. Turns out, I got one thing right. I came back. Sadly, I didn’t get my happy ending.
Happy, I am not.
So I’m stepping out of the Ms. Optimistic guise. And admitting that sometimes, things just don’t work out. At least not the way we want.
So we make the best of what we end up with. For me, current prospects are bleak.
We must move out of our rental. My landlord split with his fiancée and needs to move back in. So no garden. No beautiful view. Despite a contract.
My business partner is not motivated, and after almost two months and lots of (borrowed) money, our chiropractic office is nowhere near ready.
I am out of money and out of assets. And deeper in debt.
And that long-lost love? In a movie somewhere. Or a book. Not here. Not for me. Not now. So, there you have it. Another ending.
A sucky one.
Now, it’s time for me to sign off and go make that heroine suffer. A lot. Maybe it’ll allay some of mine in the process. Here’s to trying.
~ la fin
So, that’s it, folks. Thank you for being here. I hope you found something useful in this slice-of-life essay and in my series on Endings and The End. I think it might be time to explore the sequelae — for without an ending, we would have no beginnings.
Stories end in life, and must in books, too. In trilogies and series, Book One gives way to Book Two. But only if we end that first novel. We could string it all together in one humongous tome. But why?
Did I learn anything from writing this series? I certainly did.
In allowing my retirement to be a proper ending rather than wallowing in it for three years (as I have), I can step into the ether and make a new beginning. I mean, I already have. But until I began writing this series, it never occurred to me to let go of “retirement” as a status and leap into another phase of life. (Pssst, ask me how Robert Redford’s death helped.)
In writing it out and paying attention to the signs, I got past a huge block to finish the first book of my trilogy, then went on to write (and end) the rest.
But mostly, and amazingly, I realized that in learning how and when to end a novel, I became less afraid of The End. The result? A lifelong aversion to endings and goodbyes has lost some of its grip.
Do you have a story or thoughts you would like to share on Endings and The End? Please join the conversation and share your thoughts.
~ That Rebel, Olivia/O. J. Barré
P.S. I had hoped to include links to other writers’ posts and notes on endings, but I had no takers. Seems even on Substack, people are too busy and requests get ignored. Or maybe my notes got buried.
From my heart to yours, Olivia/O. J.❤️
P.S. If you enjoy my weekly essays from the heart, you might also enjoy my fiction. I’ve linked previews to both of my serialized works below. The first is Awen Rising, the first book in the completed Awen Trilogy. The second is a spin-off thriller I am currently writing, Crossed, Cursed, & Nearly Dead.
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Saved for later cos I liked the lights.
Love all the pieces in this series. Thanks for sharing!