The Bitter End

Oh, it's so very frustrating! I've dreamed of writing romance novels since I was too young to even read romance novels. I love to write. I write all the time. So why the hell can't I just finish something?

I'm within ten thousand words of the end of my novel. I'm one of those obsessive polish-as-you-go writers – the kind the NaNoWriMo people warn you about – so the manuscript will need minimal revisions once finished. I already know how it's supposed to end. I can knock out 10K quality words in a weekend – maybe two if I'm feeling nit-picky.

Why the hell can't I just finish?

I think I'm bored. I already know what's going to happen. I've already worked all of the kinks out of the story so far. It should be smooth sailing from here on out. If only I weren't the kind of girl who likes stormy seas.

I like the problems, the difficulties, the pressure, and the continuity issues. I like fixing grammar, straightening out plot holes, and waking up in the middle of the night with a perfect ending for that scene I've been mulling over burning bright and steady as a torch in my imagination.

But I'm past that stage. Now I just need to hit the marks, write the final scenes, edit and send it off. And instead, I've written beginnings to three different stories. I've started mulling over the continuity issues of my manuscript that's only half-finished. I've gone back to old stories that I put aside and started working on their endings.

Fuck this procrastination! I mean to write. I don't care if I have to inch toward that ending two hundred and fifty words at a time, I'll make it. I have to. My inner child – that ornery, curly-haired brat with a love for all things lurid and forbidden – is counting on me!