Now that I am at last, at last approaching the end of The WIP That Would Not Die, I find myself strangely reluctant to push forward. Daily word counts have been in the tens instead of the hundreds since I embarked on Chapter 32 (of 33) (I think). Part of the problem is of course the unsettled state of the house, rugs pulled out, furniture where it should not be, no furniture where it should be, books and towels and papers all higgeldy-piggeldy … but the other part is … me. Why should this be? Why should finishing be scary?
It’s a great thumping big word, though, “finished,” and I’ve been unsteadily hacking my way towards the end of this maze for more years than I care to admit. How can you ever do this professionally, I chide myself, if it takes you this long to write one thing … and then you balk at the end?
But I am moving forward, if slowly and with inexplicable reluctance. Ten words a day is still better than no words, right? Even if at this rate it’ll take another [really long time] to finish.