I still haven’t finished my book. I mean I know like other writers I’m sure there’s never a time where they’re 100% satisfied with the product.
At some point you just have to let that shit go.
But as I started rewriting and editing the third draft, I couldn’t go past the second chapter. Couldn’t edit a sentence, substitute a new word, or delete an entire passage. For a good portion of six months this went on.
I couldn’t go any further with my book because of the memories attached to each page. It haunted me in my own little weird way. I remember each chapter written, most dialogue, checking and rechecking if this and that made sense, down to the character’s name and even occupation.
I sadly remember it all.
It’s why when I started the third draft it took me over a week to redo the first two chapters. Seventy-five percent of the time was spent staring at the same page.
Deleting it, then bringing it back. Cursing it, then apologizing.
I even considered abandoning it altogether.
Locking it away in the deepest depths of my Dropbox folder to gather imaginary cobwebs and dust. Start something new — a completely different story with no strings or relationships attached, just on my own. But after fully considering that idea, I couldn’t bring myself to clicking New File.
Because it leaves something unfinished. Something that has collected countless hours of my attention. This book, as hard as I’ve tried, isn’t easy to push away. It’s a stubborn little bastard, like that itch in the middle of your back you can’t quite reach.
Not finishing it would be my own travesty.
And letting something so superficial prevent that completion in any way is ludicrous.
I gave myself quite the gut-check over the past few days. To get over myself and to stop dawdling with everything.
I’m not finishing it just for the sake of finishing.
I’m finishing this book because it deserves to be more than an incomplete file within my laptop.
I’m just pissed it took this long for me to come across this (obvious) realization.