Only five chapters left to write.

Five. Such a tiny number in the face of what’s already been written. Five.

I’m coming to the end of the my new YA dystopian sci-fi book (the first in a series). I can’t believe that I’m almost finished after months of hard work. Of course, many revisions still lie ahead, but a first draft is a major accomplishment.

It is the blueprint from which all else will grow (blueprints play a significant role in the book, by the way).

I’ve loved writing this book and know that I will be sad when the end finally nears, but luckily is is not an end for my characters, but only a new beginning (and the book is all about new beginnings in a way). It less downtrodden dystopia, and more about being reborn from the ashes of a dead world like a fiery phoenix. It is unlike most of what is on the market now, for better or worse.

I was sitting with an agent that other day (who I shall not name, but who works at one of the big agencies) who assured me that different is what would make this book stand out. Sometimes it’s hard to feel like the only boat in a lonely sea (the sea also plays a big role in the book), but I know that she is right. I would to hate to merely write a pale cousin to THE HUNGER GAMES, or steal the characters from TWILIGHT and transform the story into a poorly written pornographic romp (even if it netted me untold riches).

I wouldn’t feel good about myself—and most importantly, the work would suffer.

At least, this is what I tell myself.

And most days, I believe it as I put fingers to keyboard to spin this story out of thin air.

I’m off to the Virginia countryside for a self-imposed writing residency. It is there that I will complete this installment of the story. It is there that I will finally type the words:

THE END.