Is hard.
And painful.
And heartbreaking.
Like someone is ripping your insides out and all you want to do is run and hide.
But there's nowhere to hide.
You have to write the words to finish the book.
To end something that seems like it only just started a few months ago.
How can it be years ago?
How can it be time to write the last word?
We parade ourselves as tortured souls, wearing our insides out we pride ourselves about our eloquence in expressing what we want to do.