A beautiful Sunday afternoon. I sit in my library and gaze out the bay window people watching while Bella sits right outside the library as if respecting my wishes to write alone. The blinking cursor on my short story beckons. 4000 words in, and it feels as if it will never end. Each word I spit out feels dirty, untrue, and unworthy. Yet I am determined to finish. No more revising until I have a complete story even one I have begun to hate and feel like a third grader would write.
Each day, I continue to write 300 words, and some days those words seem to taunt me with their silliness. They are just plain wrong, but I keep going because I have to keep the end in mind. I can no longer write half way. No longer tell myself, I will get to the ending later (because I never do). Writers write. So if I dare call myself a writer, I get to keep pounding words, nouns, verbs, adjectives, sentences, and as I get near the end, more stuff pops and I begin to wonder if I will ever finish. Then doubts. I am writing wrong! This is wrong, wrong, wrong! And I sit with that feeling, take it in. Then I breathe it out, and keep going.
The end is near, and all that matters is that I finish the story. Good or bad. It is mine.