The Definition of Closure

I just finished the first draft of The Gathering (working title) the horror novel I started writing before My Father’s Magic took over my life.

The story first came to me while living in an apartment in a small town south of Tucson. Our many walks around the complex were often interrupted by what I can only believe were ghosts. Patches of cold air to be followed by “things” hurrying up behind us, “things” only I could hear, and were not there when I turned to confront them.

The place was eerie with its long-filled lake bed, memorialized only by a small aqueduct and a group of resilient cat tails. Our apartment never ceased to give me a restless uneasiness, a feeling that something or someone was forever watching me.

I wrote the story in starts and stops over the years. Perhaps I was never ready to finish it, or maybe, the evil entity that pervades the story was not ready for his tale to be over… Either way, the first draft is now done; the last two characters in a cast of so many have now finished a journey that, for this writer, began seven years ago.

Hmm, it’s nice to finally know how the story ends…