Always comes too soon. Or else dies an uneasy death. Not sure which is preferable in the context of a novel, the writing thereof, but having laboured over a beginning and luxuriated in the possibilities of a middle, the end is, frankly, a pain in the arse.

Thirty five chapters and 80,000 words seemed about right. I'm at 69k and thirty chapters. Again, seems about right. Only: what next? I don't wish to grasp at a denouement. I mean, how undignified. I'm actually getting through about 1000 words an evening at present so maybe I should just relax. But 10k suddenly seems a big chunk.

In other news I waited two weeks for delivery of five copies of Ocellus, one of which I needed to get to the manager of Newcastle Waterstone's. They didn't arrive. Seems my order may have been 'rejected' by the printers on account of me not entering a full enough delivery address (my mum's). What? Really? Oh come on. I had one copy which I would have liked to have kept it being the first but I posted this rather than wait another week. Boo. Oh well. If said manager at Waterstone's nods I can then lean on Durham and take it from there...

Ebook sales are rubbish by the way. Shame on you.