The waiting is the hardest part

The first paragraph was written in mere seconds - and probably shows - but what follows has had its difficult moments from time to time, as did wrapping up individual chapters. I certainly didn't want the story existing only as a construct to please a collection of cliffhangers. "Tune in next week to find out if Jacques Everyman can save little Pierre's puppy from being run over by Snidely le Whiplash's wheat thresher!" On the flip side, delays have been surprisingly uncommon, and whether basing the story in a real place with some real, albeit extremely minor, people from history provided a crutch or a hindrance is a question for another time. I lean towards the former; a notion perhaps expected from someone with so little experience writing fiction. But now, I'm stuck. As in, trudging through molasses in the dead of winter, each footfall pulled by the skeletal grip of the interred further and further into the muck stuck.

With the ending? Of course not - how the hell did the beginning and the end prove to be so easy? Does that happen often? Never? That'll be the next story. Front, back, hollow in the middle, fill it in yourself. Anyway, despite having mutated with the occasional and judicious application of spirits, la fin was built quite early. Now, only connection to the body remains.

The final step was easy as pie, brown sugar, no molasses. The penultimate ones? I can't move, and am waiting for the thaw to free me.