Strange...

Drove to Great Barrington, MA from Buffalo. An easy drive straight down the 90 going east...well, after I got past Rochester. Supposedly, there was a major wreck on the 90 between Rochester and Buffalo so I took the 33 to the 490 then on to connect, and it was nice. Slower but also more soothing.

Maybe too soothing. Normally when I'm driving I can think about some project I'm working on or want to work on, but not this time. My brain refused to engage. Nothing on DW or BA or even continuing with The Beast as horror erotica. I'd try to start something and it would just drift away.

I'd look at the passing scenery and buildings in the countryside. Decide I prefer the spicy Cheez-its to the bacon and cheese ones. Chew some peppermint gum. Stop for a pee break and to stretch my legs. All without a thought in my head.

One thought that came to me is I've decided no matter what happens next, me having written all three volumes of A Place of Safety is what I'm most proud of. No matter what people say about it, I did right by Brendan and his story. Some details may be wrong, here and there, but the truth of the story stands. 

That is what it boils down to. I wasn't writing a novel about Northern Ireland during the Troubles. I was relating the story of Brendan and his world. How he navigated it. How he almost did not survive it. That's why my initial big-bang ending, where he joins the IRA and kills Father Jack as a tout, was all wrong. It wasn't Brendan's way. Never could be.

So a quiet ending was necessary. Cutting all ties. Heading off into his own existence. I don't know if anyone will understand that...if I related it well-enough...but to me, that is what it means.

The only way to survive in this world is to not let yourself get caught up in its chaos.