“The hardest thing is the ending,” said the author, “because in life
there really are no endings; life goes on.  There are happy moments
and there are sad moments, but none of them are really endings; they
flow on from other moments and flow into yet more moments.  The only
true ending is death, and that is a very difficult ending to work
towards in a book, because we are all still working towards it
ourselves, and hope still to be working towards it when we've finished
the book.  That's why so many authors will tell you to start with your
ending.  A good ending is a rare thing, and if you stumble upon one
you need to grab it, put it down, and stick with it.  And if you're
going to go with death, you'd better be convincing.”

She nodded her thanks to the author and later, after a few more
questions were asked, went up to have her book signed.  Her copy
wasn't like the ones stacked on the desk to the right of the author's
arm; she'd bought it as soon as it had come out and waited three
months for the tour to come to her town.  The book she handed to the
author was well-thumbed and worn-looking from being carried around in
her backpack every day.

The author signed:

	Thanks for reading, Keep on writing!

and gave it back to her with a smile.

On her way home she thought about what the author had said.

	The only true ending is death.

She was right: that's a tough one.  Leave that to Hemingway.  But
there must be points in one's life which could be called endings
besides the ‘true ending’, beginnings which aren't birth, endings
which aren't death.

Like this moment, she told herself; this could be the beginning of my
writing career.  “Keep writing,” the author had signed.  True, she had
written in the past, but this moment, this very moment; from the point
when she'd answered her question about the toughest part about
writing; this would be her first real beginning.

Inspired, and knowing how for her inspiration could fade so quickly,
determined to do well by her resolution right away, she pulled out her
notebook then and there, on the street.  She wrote it down, how she'd
gone to the book-signing and met her favorite author, how she'd put a
thought in her head, a challenge, to come up with an ending that
wasn't ‘the’ ending.  She wrote while she walked, her surroundings
blurring away.  She'd done it before, walking and writing lest that
flicker of inspiration flash away, but never with such gusto, such
determination.

And when she'd gotten that far she looked up.  Well, what will my
ending be, then?  Can there be tragedy without death?

She looked around as she continued homeward.  The tragedy of the city?
Once a glittering attraction, engendering the fancy of moving out away
from home and into its alluring center to become a writer, to really
make it as an artist; the tragedy being the reality, the drudgery of
making a living and having the dream slowly crumble away like the
walls of all the sad old buildings she now found herself walking past.

Maybe.  She walked on.

What about the people?  There was plenty of tragedy there, even though
they were still alive.  She was coming up on a bum pushing along a
shopping cart full of plastic bags and empty bottles.  That was an
ending besides death, she thought.  How did he get there?  He could
have had a fine beginning and now he collects empty bottles.  It could
happen to anyone.  It could happen to my protagonist.  That's what'll
happen to the protagonist: she's a talented writer on the brink of
beginning an illustrious career, but somehow, all too soon, she's out
on the streets, penniless...

As she overtook the bum with the shopping cart she began scribbling
again in the notebook, striding on, inspired.

                        *      *      *

The brown car screeched and she went thump up onto its hood and people
screamed and the other cars came with the people with stretchers and
the bum bent down and got her notebook and he wrote at the bottom

                            THE END