Writing a novel is not unlike reading one, except for being much more work.  At a certain point in either undertaking,  ideally,  the momentum and the mystery of the plot  take over, and you become so curious to find out how it ends that there is no option but to keep going.  Which, when you are the one writing it, means there is no other way to find out what the end is than by writing it. Constructing a plan is helpful; so are notes to oneself, but they are unsatisfactory in the same way that reading a summary of a novel is an unsatisfactory facsimile of the thing itself.

I have reached this point. The sense of needing to be done pulls me, gently but firmly, the way North pulls the needle of a compass, back to my Dropbox folder and my laptop, to the only place I belong right now, the world inside my head.