Photo Credit: Death to the stock photo

I’m so close. Like a marathon runner who catches that first glimpse of the finish line, I’m on the home stretch. Within 10,000 words of typing ‘The End’ on my second novel. It’s been almost a year in the making, crafting in fits and starts, between the carpool and the trips to the orthodontist and soccer games and launching the first book baby out into the world.

I could take many moons to finish this one, but these characters are starting to rail against my procrastination. They whisper so close to reality that I can almost feel them, fighting against my inactivity for resolution to their story.

I’m so close.

And yet so far.

This is the hardest part. Like anything else in life, I avoid the hard parts. Even if the taste of victory is close. But lingers just out of reach. In some ways, writing this novel makes my heart sing. I love the characters, the storyline, the romance. Then my inner critic wakes up, like a sleep-deprived preschooler, and starts proclaiming my inadequacies. Lousy sentence structure. Too many adverbs. Hasn’t this plot been done before, like, a bazillion times?

And just like that, the magic is gone. Snuffed out. I’m left with a string of unfinished sentences and that blasted blinking cursor, always taunting me.

I’m close. And with each word, inching ever closer. It will be a great day when I legitimately type ‘The End’.

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