The thoughts were flowing, the story coming together. At one point after 250 pages the story began to take on a life of its own and veered toward a path he didn’t plan on, but it made sense and he went with it. Now, nearly at page 400, the story was culminating, reaching its inevitable conclusion.

The thrill of being in the home stretch invigorated him. He’d begun the day at 8 a.m. with the intention of writing just 2,000 words (his daily quota), but the end was near, the story clear. He stuck with it, his fingers gliding over the keys of the old Royal typewriter his grandfather had left him years earlier. Now, nearing 9 p.m. and almost 10,000 words later, he was there. The End.

He rolled in the last sheet of paper, lined it up and typed away. Two paragraphs, 162 words and just more than half a page. The first draft. Seven months of planning, outlining, devising, typing and researching all led to that moment. The feeling he had as he typed “The End” was one he had experienced before. But each time it felt new. The exhilaration of having completed something was one of the best feelings in the world.

He rolled the sheet of paper from the carriage and placed it upside down on the stack. The novel. Months of work. The culmination of his creativity and his time. If those pages never led to anything, he still felt satisfied. He felt accomplished. Many people start what he started but never finish. He finished. And he was elated.

Yet it was a first draft. Just a draft. So, despite the words “The End” appearing at the bottom of that last page, it wasn’t the end. For that book or his writing.

There is always something else to write.

Always.