I want to finish my novel.
Crazy, I know. I’ve been fighting with it for a long time. I’ve put it away for more than a year. I decided I was done with it.
But it won’t. go. away.
So I decided that no matter how much of a steaming pile of excrement it is… I am going to finish it. When I turn 40, I want to be able to say I accomplished that one thing.
When it’s done, we’ll see where it is, do some revisions and editing and see if it’s any good. I don’t think I want to sell it (because there’s a chance it won’t be any good at all) but I know my mother will want a copy so I do hope to get a couple of copies printed up, just to have and to say that I wrote something.
So, eight months and counting. I have a lot written, but I’m going to have to tear it apart and start over. Go in another direction.
Go back to what works.