Having spent the past year working on a novel that seems no closer to being finished and yet gets longer, I now have to consider, what to do with it. What does Penelope promise? I don't know. Ergo, I can't finish. I have to know the answer to finish the book.
How do you promise a something when you don't know what you're doing? You can't.
Many a day, I sit down and don't know before I sit down, what will pour out onto the page. Sometimes it's funny, sometimes it is poetry, but lately, all the creative waters feel still. That stillness scares me, because I remember how I used to draw all the time. Every notepad had sketches, and even the essay tests were illustrated in the margins. Drawing allowed me to relax, to think, and to escape when I didn't want to think or feel. I could just pour everything into the pencil until all of it ran out.
That's the fear when you don't have the ending.