Still slogging

Sometime a year or so ago I posted a picture of good ol' Montana gumbo.

No, it's not a cajun stew. It's the quality the local soil achieves when it comes in contact with moisture. It forms an at-first-slick, then sticky, then binding, then congealing mess. It gets in your tires and forms tires around them.

It pretty much stops you dead.

I would not like to describe where I am in the book as having anything to do with gumbo. Not really. Because I'm making progress. A considerable amount of progress in fact. But someone keeps moving the destination.

I think I'm coming in sight of the last turnpost before the end and, oops, no. Not there yet. More twists, more turns, more complications. Who knew?

I am reminded of my fellow former Harlequin American author and still good friend, Barbara Bretton, who had a book like that which went on for another 60 or so pages beyond where it was supposed to call it quits.

I believe she sent it to her editor (in those days of paper submissions) with a knife stuck through it, indicating that she'd finally simply had to end the thing.

I know how she felt.

I do not particularly want to stick a knife through PJ and Ally, but I see them racking up frequent flyer miles and I want to throttle them. Enough to-ing and fro-ing for goodness sake. And yet, I know this is how the story has to end.

I just hope my editor knows it, too.