Neil Gaiman, why do I bother?

I love Murder Mysteries. Seriously, like a lot. I think it was the first thing of Gaiman's I read, and from there I went on to devour all his short stories I could find, and then the novels.
But I didn't come here to tell you that story. I told you that story so I could tell you this story.
I was in the shower, thinking about one of my latest partially written stories. Specifically the end. And I thought to myself, "Oh, hey, that's kind of like the themes in MM." And I wasn't even reading the story. I was just thinking of that bit at the end, with the angel not the narrator. And suddenly I was crying--not the delicate single tear lost in the hot water sort of crying that you would expect from me, but choking, wrenching, snot everywhere crying. Of course, in my defence, right now there's always snot everywhere.
Like many of my stories, this one doesn't really have an ending, just a vaguely interesting chunk in the middle.