I’m finally done with the draft of Faithless.
Writers have stories that refuse to cooperate with us from time to time. Faithless was that story. I wanted to go right, it bucked and went left. Then I would wrestle with it until I was tired, and then it would go the way I wanted for a bit.
Then, it would rebel, and we’d fight again.
It’s part of the life of a writer. It’s the first story where I quit, then I’d try again. My muse on more than one occasion threw her hands in the air, stomped into my trailer, packed her crap, and left. After she set the trailer on fire.
I pressed on. This has left me with the notion that I am a glutton for punishment, a masochist with just a touch sadism, a third-degree black belt of stupidity.
But it’s done.
I can’t tell you how exhilarated I was to pen the conclusion of that story. How accomplished I felt as the words dropped from my mind onto the blank page. I wish with all my being that I could describe it, but then, I don’t have too. Because one day, that story that’s driven you to the brink of madness, you will finish it.
Then, you will experience the thrill of conquering that beast. You will stand at your printer like some conquistador who planted a flag on the very thing you thought would kill you. “I did it,” you’ll shout in your exhausted mind. I did.
“Have at you,” I shouted. “It’s only a flesh wound!”
Okay, so I didn’t really shout it out in the solitude of my cabin, but danged if I didn’t want to. All the arduous work, the toiling, the brain busting, it was all worth finishing. So, I challenge you to not give up.
You got this. Go forth and plant your flag.