Okay, here’s the story. I am one of those sad little writers who has been writing something that she just can’t seem to finish. My problem is that I get distracted and start writing something else and then before you know it, I have two started but unfinished written works. And then, what do you know, I get another rad and bad idea, start working on that and yep, you guessed it by mid-year, I have 3 unfinished projects. That little nightmare of a carnival ride just goes on and on. And I let it. Crazy making for sure and not too good for the self-esteem having all these unfinished projects just hovering about.
A friend suggested that if my work was engaging to begin with I wouldn’t get distracted and I would finish the piece. With friends like that, you see why I prefer being a recluse. Who needs the fucking negativity and feeding of self-doubt?, I ask myself. I’m better off alone in the company of my stories, my characters, my plot devices with only my brooding poems to break up the monotony when needed. I write alone, she says with false bravado.
But why can’t I finish a story? Are the stories truly not engaging enough? Am I not that dedicated to my craft? Am I just not that talented of a writer that I think I am? Damn those university professors who told me that I had a story to write. What is the answer. All of the above, or half of the above? Who the hell knows at this point.
What I do know is that I have to just finish one piece, one story, one more chapter, one more draft. Just get on with the damn business of writing and write the goddamn stories and be done with it. At this point they don’t even have to get published, be liked, or be read. I just want to finish one story and move the strap around my neck to a more comfortable hold.
Finish a story. Okay. Just that. Just. That. That. That. That.