When working on a story with an empty battery and full bladder, writing can be hard. It's not like it's hard otherwise, because really, writing is hard, but when you have to work in these conditions, your mind can easily be lead elsewhere.
The key to it, really, is the end of it all. That's how I focus. I think of how it will be when this is all over, when the stories are finished, when the fans have all died away. I think about how it'll be for me, mostly. I'll probably be that old, senile pile of wrinkles in the corner of the nursing home; blabbering to my grandchildren for hours about the adventures I had, long after they've already gone home to their own families.
My friends will probably have long forgotten me, the crazy stories I told by the campfire and the crazier ones I wrote on this old computer. They'll be at home with their own children, shaky, fragile old hands flipping through the pages of old scrapbooks.
I'd miss my old life, my dashing face and charming voice, I mean, who wouldn't? Well, maybe I'm exaggerating just a little. I'd probably be the same guy, just shriveled up from age and eyes already shaded grey. But my mind would be intact, fully, maybe even fuller than before. My autocorrect says fuller is a word, so I'm not going to change it.
Maybe my characters will be able to continue their life after I'm gone. Maybe, they'll have their own wives and children. They might even look back to books about me and say, "Hey! That's my author!" with chests puffed out proudly.
I'm tired now. I'm tired of writing, and the attention, and the fans, demanding new books. I'm ready to take a break, and I'm ready for reality to sink in. I'm done with the books, but the story isn't over, I know that, and I have to make sure it goes as planned. It looks like my life won't exactly turn out the way I expected it to. It's going to turn out a lot better.
Chuck Sherly.