I think, over time, I have made the (not so difficult) decision to let my unfinished novel go. I won’t delete it, but I’m not making it past what I’ve written so far. The inability to finish this work is eating away at my confidence as a writer. It’s making me second guess my talent and wonder if I am, indeed a writer. Maybe I am a writer but not a novelist? A writer but not an author? At any rate, I am tired of thinking about how I have to dig that thing out and keep pounding away on it. I am ready to think about something new. Whatever that something is.