Today was rainy and raw. The wind seemed to be throwing water against the windows all day long, and the sky stayed twilight-dark.

This is, obviously, Weather to Outline A Novel In. And just in time! I settled myself down with the intention of plotting the last half of my novel. I had done the first half with great exuberance yesterday and the day before…but, well, there’s something about trying to tie up the end of this unwritten book that just made me want to curl up in the fetal position and take a nice long nap instead. Either that, or hyperventilate for a while after which I would look for a real job on monster.com. (Perhaps something involving only physical labor, nothing to do with words.)

I mean: how the heck do I know what these characters are going to do at the end of a book I haven’t written yet? All I know is that I am planning piles and piles of love and trouble for them, and now I’m also supposed to know how to get them out of it, without making it seem too cheesy or unrealistic?

But instead of heading back to bed, I built a fire in the fireplace and lit all the IKEA candles because it was DARK and cold. And then I sat down with the dog and my laptop…and, well, the next thing I knew, all these possible endings for the end of the book just started unfolding before me. It was quiet in the house, except for the dog’s breathing and the rain flinging against the windows, and the fire crackling away. That probably helped, the quiet.

I typed out all the possible endings, trying them on. Some I had to reject because they were dragging the story out too long, unnecessarily.  One ending seemed sadder than I wanted. And still another tied the loose ends up too neatly. I hate books that end with the feeling that you’ve just wrapped up a present with a big red bow, don’t you? I like something meaty to chew on after the book is done. And, like in real life, I think we have to work to find meaning in a set of circumstances. Novels need to give that feeling of possibility at the end.

It was actually hard to stop thinking about this when it was time to go cook dinner and feed the dog. When I looked up at six, the fire had died and the rain had stopped, and I was writing by the light of the laptop and the candles, which were down to almost nothing. Clearly it was time to turn on lights and music and cook the Jamaican chicken and rice…and to stretch.

All this evening, though, I’ve felt somehow suspended between two worlds, my own and the one I’d been living in all afternoon. It’s a wonderful feeling, like maybe you get two lives for the price of one.

And it reminded me of this great quote by the writer lee Smith, which I have taped on my writing desk: “When stuff in life gets really rough, I would just die if I was not writing a novel. Once you think it up, it’s like a whole other city with a little door and every time you sit down to write, you just open the door and there you are–a wonderful vacation for two hours.”

Or maybe eight.