I'm no hero. I don't like pain. Maybe I should stop riding a motorbike in England just like I gave up full contact martial arts in the days when actual padding was considered effeminate. Anyway, my arm is still a useless appendage; just like my brain according to my darling wife.
I've just finished a marathon session of writing. My current novel, The Book Of Pain, beginning in medieval England and finishing in the present is going to be quite long.
For the first time in my twelve completed novels I knew what was going to happen at the beginning, and the end - a real departure in style for me.
What I didn't know was what would be the pivot on which the book turned as the middle became a run to the end. So I've just finished a marathon session and got it all down. I woke up in the middle of the night, my arm throbbing like a real sod, when it occurred to me. I'd like to say that the work made my arm stop hurting, but it didn't. Still the novel is now progressing in the way I wanted and that makes up for it in some way.
My hero has just found the answer that two hundred years of hideous pain has denied him. The only problem is, that knowledge is even worse than the curse since he's still yet a decent man. In order to relieve himself of the curse he drags with him, he has to turn into something different - quite the opposite of a decent man. Will he? I don't know, since I have two carefully worked out endings.
What happens will be as much a surprise to me as any reader.