The anniversary of me quitting my job is nigh. About a month from now.
I want to finish my book by then.
Can she do it, folks?!
Where's my adderall?
You know what's cuckoo? I think I can do it. Honestly, I probably would have finished the thing by now if not for one minor issue: Sheer terror of failing.
I read a book recently that had an interview with the author at the end. She says the first book she wrote took her a year to write and it's awful. She hopes no one ever sees it. It's in a drawer in her office.
When I read that, I think my heart stopped for 30 seconds.
The important thing, my husband says, is to finish the damned thing. I must agree. Finish it. Then I'll worry about the next steps.