It's done... I think...

Last night, I wrote a sentence, in what I thought, was just the end of the thirty sixth chapter. I spent an hour looking at the sentence. Tonight, I've spent another hour looking at the sentence. The longer I look at the sentence, the more I think that it is actually the last sentence in the last chapter in the story. It doesn't wrap up any loose ends, it doesn't give you the answers, it just ends and right now, I think that is the perfect ending. As much as I enjoyed several popular book series (50 Shades, Twilight, Harry Potter), the authors wrapped up the stories and gave us all the answers in a nice, tidy package. Being handed the answers really pissed me off. Sure, we all love happy endings and in my head, with my own story, since the fourth chapter, I've been waffling on what my happy ending would be. The deeper I got into the story and the more involved with the characters I became, the more certain I was that even if I know what happened, I'm not so sure I need to draw those lines for anyone who may read this story. Part of what I've always loved about reading is being able to draw my own conclusions and make my own inferences on the why and how certain things happen. Having that taken away from me always leaves me feeling empty. Does the author not think I'm capable of writing my own happy ending? Does the author not trust my ability to draw conclusions? Maybe it's just as simple as the author needs to get the story out of their head and to them, that means painting the entire picture. As much as I abhor serials, I know that there is more of my story to be told, in fact, while in the shower this afternoon, I actually thought of a completely different side to the story that I may need to tell. However, for right now, I would say my labour of love is complete. Edited to add: Now what am I going to do? It's been done just over 25 hours and I'm already tapping the keyboard wondering what to write next...