Blink, blink. I know. It happens. You blink and suddenly the calendar is into another season. Such is the fate for any and all writers. Tomorrow won’t be any less busy, or any less full of excuses as to why XYZ project hasn’t begun, or hasn’t finished, or why it’s “between chapters”.
I’m no exception, juggling a freelance life between tweets. Oh –and there you go. That’s a proclivitas major*. I never did get into Latin class at university; it was always full, and I wasn’t about to wait yet another semester just to take it when I had enough credits to graduate. Be done already!
Which is a line so appropriate to writing anything –be done already! The list of excuses is a mile long (wait, we’re in Canada, that’d be kilometers, thank you).
So goes the advent of starting. It really ought to be a celebratory event. Goodness knows it pretty much is when a new couple springs amongst your world of friends. It’s all “Wow! Good for you! That’s great! How’d you meet?”. The querying is practically celebratory in itself, so why the same honeymoon phase isn’t lavished upon the writer when starting a new book behooves me. Yes, there. I said it. Behooves!
It’s only when the darned thing is finished. Crossing that finish line. That societally constructed aggrandizement of completion is only worth the anything we stress ourselves over. And, we writers, poor things, we do stress, don’t we. A statement there. Not a question.
Your book you’re working on, my book I’m ‘supposedly’ working on (she says rolling her eyes in mock exaggeration) isn’t worth the digital paper it’ll never be printed on if it stays in your head. Be done already. Pick an end date. Find an editor. Move on. Write more. If there’s anything that should be under construction, it should be your next book. Then the next. Finish one. Be done already.
*greater tendency, or addiction