Much like that joke about Jesus on the cross, calling to Peter over and over again, I can see the end of the book from here. I can tell. I just hit the downslope, and I felt the acceleration kick in.
It's a funny sort of sensation, a controlled crash kind of a thing. I know where I need to end up, and I know where all my bits need to be when I do it, but I need to make it look like a deadly accident in progress all the way to the end, when it needs to look merely fortuitous that I walked away unscathed. *g*
This is a good thing and a bad thing. It's a good thing, because I can see the end of the damned book. It's a bad thing, because for the next few weeks, until I kill it dead, dead, dead, expect me to be cranky, short-tempered when interrupted, unlikely to answer email, and disinclined to take breaks for anything less serious than the bathroom, a dying dog, or another pot of tea.
I hate being like this. But there's only one known cure: finish the book.
Approximately two hundred and fifty pages to go.
Strike off their heads, and let them preach on poles.
No doubt, such lessons they will teach the rest,
As by their preachments they will profit much
And learn obedience to their lawful king.
--Christopher Marlowe, Edward II Act III scene ii