I have a very bad habit.
Somehow I have gotten in my mind that if I don’t finish something, then nothing bad will happen.
It started when I wrote my first book. I knew that the editor was waiting for it. I put it in an envelope, addressed the envelope, put stamps on it, and then promptly left it on my desk for the next two weeks. Why? Because subconsciously I knew that if I never mailed it off, he could never say no.
That was in 1982. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. I just got done–well, almost done–writing my 22nd book. I have one more chapter to write. It’s the wrap-up chapter. One measly chapter.
And yet I don’t want to write it. Why? Because as much as I thought I did a decent job on the book, it will never, NEVER be as good in reality as it is in my imagination. And there is always the possibility that people will hate it.
On the other hand, I will never know if I don’t put it out there.
And so, probably tomorrow, I will figure out a way to write those last few pages. I will look at them, scratch my head, edit a bit, then say, good enough.
Then write THE END.