It feels so good to finish a book. Writing in snatches in my “spare” time, I sometimes wonder if my books will ever get done.
I mean, there’s always the excitement of starting a new book, but somewhere around the middle the exercise segues from exciting new adventure to just plain work. I sink up to my knees in chapter 20 or 30 or maybe even 40, and find myself slogging instead of sprinting. Eventually, the end is in sight … a pinpoint of light at the end of an extremely long tunnel … and frustration mounts. If only I had a month, two weeks even, when I could write full-time, full-steam-ahead. Start in the morning, when I’m fresh. (Yes, I’m one of those.) I’m pretty sure I could leap tall buildings with a single bound, if I could write like that.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
God has a plan, right? Writing full-time isn’t in the cards right now. So, I write when I can and remind myself to be thankful for the privilege, the sheer gift of writing. (Yes, it is a gift. Even when I’m bogged and slogging. At least, I think it is.)
Still, sometimes I whine. I throw private tantrums. Both unattractive, especially at my age. (Artistic temperament? Probably doesn’t hold water, but I’ll take what I can get.) And I wonder if it’s worth it.
Then it happens, like tonight. I write the last word, enclose the last period in quotation marks, sit back, and stare at my monitor in bemused surprise. I’m done. How did that happen? I could have sworn I didn’t have the time, strength, or self-discipline to do it.
But it happened anyway … the book got written.
God has a plan, right?
