Spent all morning making notes.  And notes and notes and notes.  It seems I'm going to have to go back several chapters in order to get the end right.  This is what I've learnt:

IF THERE IS EVER A PROBLEM WITH YOUR STORY AND IT WON'T ADVANCE, IT'S BECAUSE SOMETHING DIDN'T WORK EARLIER ON.  FIND THE EARLIER FAULT AND THE LATER PROBLEM WILL RESOLVE.

Also:

THE READER NEEDS THE EXPLANATIONS, NOT THE CHARACTERS.

With these two arrows added to my quiver, I battle on.

I’m at the end of my novel.  The last two chapters have been written.  The epilogue has begun.  I’m nearly done.  I’ve been trying to follow my advice – not to rush the ending – but as I sank into a very dark Thursday gloom, I realised that I was going to have to chuck those last two chapters and begin them again.  I’ve started the 2nd last chapter about four times, rewriting and rewriting until I thought I finally had it right.  But trailing around under a freezing cold leaden sky on Friday, I found the courage to look into the abyss:  that place you go when you realise everything you’ve written in the last two or three weeks is crap. 
So:  as much as I really want to leap about cheering that I’ve finished the first draft (though some of it is second and some about tenth, but let’s not quibble ... I’ve not actually reached the end of the novel in any previous draft) – I’m going to have to go back and rethink those chapters.  I could just leave them.  I could just say, hey, I reached the end.  That’s the first draft done.  It’s not perfect but then first drafts never are.  I’ll just leave it for a bit, as I usually do, then come back to it and fix it up ..... but that’s the easy way out.  It would be much harder to confront the garbage and try to do something about it NOW, when the end is so close.  If I leave it and walk away, it'll niggle for months until I'm just exhausted by the whole thing and so depressed I won't want to work on it ever again.
Advice to self:  it doesn’t matter how long the ending takes.  It’s not like I’ve got a deadline.  And it’s not like there are people out there dying for me to turn my novelette collection into a paperback (which is my next Big Job)(amongst other things.)  And I’ve read far too many novels where it’s obvious the writer got bored and just hurried the ending, dashing off something in a day.  It's easy to wrap up lose ends - but HOW you wrap them up is an art in itself.

I want the reader to walk away feeling faintly warm and fuzzy but also chilled to the bone.  So I'm not asking much of myself.  Just the impossible.

Two weeks ago I was bouncing around with joy - I had finished Part Three, the "big reveal" in my novel.  After grinding to a halt, I went back and rewrote and rethought and rewrote more until finally it was chugging along nicely and then - at last - it was done.  It's not perfect but that doesn't matter - it's much easier to fix up something bad than write from scratch.  After a few days off, in which I painted my bedroom ceiling (which had gone grey from the mould I'd tried to wash off with bleach)(yes, isn't the life of a writer a thrilling thing), I finally got back to putting words on a page.  I only have two chapters to write, which will be quite short as they barely comprise a scene each, and then there's the epilogue, which is half-written anyway.  My elation at this point had long since waned.  While it would be a great relief to finish this novel, it would also be really sad.  Where will I escape to then?!  As usual, the first attempt at the 2nd last chapter is not going well.  How can I get to the end of the novel and still not know how my characters should act?  I wish I could get some distance from them, stand back and look at them, rather than only being able to see out their eyes from inside their heads.
On top of this dilemma, along with other real-world problems and stresses and strains, I've also hurt my back.  I felt something "ping" this morning while innocuously making my bed and I just wanted to sob with frustration.  I was just thinking yesterday how much better I've been feeling - my foot no longer hurts so much and when I walk, you can barely tell that I limp.  Now I can hardly walk at all.  I'm trying not to wallow in self-pity:  other people, after all, have far worse things wrong with them than a sore back.  Mine will get better.  Until then, I'm chained to my desk and have no choice except to tackle that crap 2nd last chapter.