Finishing a Series:

The Weight and the Relief

Writers often talk about the thrill of beginnings. The blank page, the rush of possibility, the freedom to chase ideas. But the other end of the process rarely gets as much attention. Endings are heavier. They demand more honesty, more control, and more courage than beginnings ever do.

I know this because I have done it before. This is my third series to reach completion, and each time the act of finishing has carried more weight. The first ending felt like a test. Could I even land the plane? The second felt like proof that the first was not a fluke. This third time is different. I know I can finish. What I wrestle with now is how much of myself I’ve poured into the work, and how much I have to let go when it’s over.

The Echoes of the Ascended series has lived in my head for months. Draft after draft, note after note, the world grew into something layered and demanding. But outlines can only prepare you for so much. At the end of a series, you aren’t just managing story threads. You’re closing out relationships with characters who’ve lived with you day after day. Their voices have interrupted sleep, distracted meals, and shifted how I see the world around me. Saying goodbye isn’t neat. It isn’t painless.

There’s also the matter of expectation. Readers come to the end with their own hopes, their own theories, their own sense of what “should” happen. The temptation to please everyone is strong. The truth is, you can’t. What you can do is serve the story. Sometimes that means breaking promises you hinted at back in Book 1. Sometimes it means leaving readers unsettled, because anything tidier would ring false.

One habit I’ve developed across three series is keeping a “loose ends” document. Every hinted mystery, every unresolved line, every small question gets noted there. By the time I reach the final chapters, I go back through that list. Some threads are tied off directly. Others are acknowledged without being neatly resolved. The document doesn’t guarantee perfection, but it gives me permission to stop. It helps me trust that I’m not walking away too soon.

Finishing feels like standing between two cliffs. On one side is relief. The long climb is over, the promise is kept, and the work can finally stand on its own. On the other side is grief. You’re leaving behind a world you built stone by stone, and characters who will no longer surprise you tomorrow. Both truths exist at once.

That duality—the weight and the relief—is sharper now than it was with my first or even my second series. Each ending cuts deeper, because each time I know exactly what it means to let go. And still, it’s the only way forward. Stories demand their own conclusions, and writers must find the strength to give them.