I am spitting distance from completing a first draft. I won’t hit my original self-imposed deadline (today), but I will at least be reasonably close. As I approach the end, the writing is coming more slowly, and I am fearing the inevitability of completion. It will mean that I will have to go back to the beginning and begin the gut-wrenching process of revision and rewriting.
But it will be a whole. It has been a long time since I have made something like this in completion. More than 10 years, in fact.
The next day was dreary and gray. Emily thought that it might rain before nightfall; the clouds were moving quickly and darkly, and the hung very low in the sky. The wind had picked up, sometimes gusting hard enough to blow the sandy soil at her face. Emily squinted and carried on.
There was something strange about the wind, however. It seemed entirely too loud for the occasional gusts that blew. It was almost as if it was roaring through trees, but there were no trees around through which it could blow. And it had a rhythmic quality to it, as if the wind was waxing and waning sometimes, first in then out. It was unlike anything she had ever heard.
And then it was there.
Emily stopped at the top of the low rise she had crested. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. As far as she could look, to the very edge of the horizon, was blue. The water stretched out to the east and west, and it disappeared to the north, where it met the breaking sky. The roar she had thought was the wind was the sound of great waves breaking near the sandy shore. It was like nothing she had ever seen before, nothing she had ever imagined, nothing she had ever dreamed. She had finally reached it; the Oceana Nordica.