I should have finished my book years ago. Instead…

I stared a hole through my monitor. The one line I typed in Word was starting to blur because I refused to blink because I was tired and I knew blinking was too close to sleep.

All the talent in the world and I was still drafting my novel.

I sighed. I took my second shot of rum.

I used to laugh and scoff at authors who spent decades writing their books.

That will never be me. I’ll be published.

Decades vanished, and I was no closer to The End than I was a decade ago because I keep starting from the beginning.

I stood and start punching the air.

I shadowboxed when I felt anxious.

Jab. Cross. Jab, cross, uppercut, roundhouse….

Sometimes I’d set my boxing app and go the whole twelve rounds trying to figure out what to write next. What to do next.

I took a seat.

When I started my novel I was forever young, single, and directionless with all the time in the world. I was also a terrible writer. But I had time, and youthful exuberance (ignorance) on my side. Now, I was just old and careful and too painfully aware of my mortality. I was confused at to whether I should care more or care less at my age.

I typed a line.

My main character was now in the middle of an existential crisis. It’s all I knew.

Write what you know, right?

I closed Microsoft Word and reopened my Youtube browser.

I chose not to care as much anymore. It was my choice. It made little sense to waste anymore time on a story I’ve failed to finish for more than a decade.

I clicked on a channel about cameras and filmmaking.

It was cool. A lot of quick cuts and After effects.

I yawned. I clicked on Microsoft Word and reopened my story.

I needed to finish my book. I couldn’t go a third decade without finishing my book. It was the first book of a series. I’d be damned if I died before I finished that story.

I wrote a paragraph.

My main character was a twelve year old was crumbling under the weight of an existential crisis. That was how I would write the chapter. A twelve year old child in a fantasy world suffering from a real adult world problem.

I smirked.

I felt hope. I would finish my book in the next ten years. I no longer cared whether it was trash or whether anybody will read it.

Hope.

F*ck yeah.

I kept writing.