New ending...

I discovered, through fretting and worrying and a nasty but short-lived case of writer's block yesterday and this morning, that no one else's scheming will tell Bronte's story. Sorry, Jan and Gina. I tried to make it work. It was brilliant. But it wasn't in the cards. I tried to force it to fit, but, in doing so, I was unable to even write a decent paragraph yesterday, and I became dejected and morose, convinced that after all this work, I'd be unable to ever complete the story. I reminded myself before I fell asleep last night that this whole project was in fun and that I should just write an unsatisfactory ending, if need be. Even that would be better than no ending at all. I've been scribbling on notecards all morning, summing up over and over again the most current, organic developments in the plot, leaving off the malarkey that I wrote last night and this morning, scrapping it into a heap of crossed-through and multi-colored trash in the gutter of the Word document. Hey! The words still count, even if I don't use them. In this incessant paraphrasing, I finally hit upon the solution to my problems. I started typing again, unfettered by any specific direction, just following my, or Bronte's, gut, and I think that I may be able to muster a satisfying denouement after all. I'll let you know the minute I've typed words 49,000 and 50,000 - "The End."