Limbo

Writing is hard. Don't let anybody tell you any different. Granted, some days it's easier than others. There are times when I can open up my laptop, hit that "create story" button and the words literally come pouring out of my fingertips. Other days... well... I think everyone who writes understands that feeling of staring at a blank page. A canvas ready to be filled, but the inkwell of creativity within one's soul has run completely dry.

But, I'm digressing. Allow me to get back to the point.

The story I will be referring to for this piece is technically finished. Technically. I have written a novel, and I love eighty-nine percent of it to pieces. It is - dare I say - a work of art. I have carefully crafted it, polishing every chapter, line, and word until it's absolutely perfect.

Only it's not. Perfect, that is.

I know I'm supposed to talk about why it never came together. What I think is holding it back. The problem is... I'm not really sure what the problem is. There's something about the ending that just doesn't jive. Ending a story has always been my Achilles' heel in general, but this time... This time it matters. A lot. This novel is supposed to be my bread and butter. If I ever want to get published, I'll have to pull that trigger eventually and find a publisher. But that ending just sticks in my craw.

It's so frustrating, looking at the thing you've created - the thing that represents months, nay, years of your life - and asking it, "what's wrong with you?". Because something is indeed wrong with it, Dear Reader.

Or perhaps... there's something wrong with me.

Part of me wants to unravel the whole thing and start over. I've done it before, many times, with a story I'm writing for my own enjoyment. It's sort of a cheat I suppose: instead of cutting a small hole in the wall to find where the leak is coming from, I take the whole house down to the studs and begin anew. The process is painstaking. Agonizing. Not to mention a huge waste of time. Still, that's just how my brain works usually. If it doesn't work, take it apart and start over from scratch.

No matter how many times I start over, though, I usually get stuck at the same intersection. They say that the definition of insanity is repeating a task exactly the same way and expecting a different outcome. If there's any truth to that old adage, then I suppose I am insane in that regard. I feel as if I've been beating my head against this wall for so long, I can't tell where the mortar ends and my own blood and bone begin.

I've shared my story with a few members of my family. They say the ending is fine, and I should just stop nitpicking it. I want to believe they're right. One of my writing teachers in college told me that too much editing can be detrimental to the work overall. It's like a bad facelift: if you keep nipping here and tucking there, the finished story will be completely unrecognizable from when it started. Whatever themes you've chosen can get lost if the waters are muddied too much. Worst of all, your potential readers may get confused and drop the darn thing if you've edited it beyond readability.

Maybe the problem is me. I don't even know how to end this work, let alone a 400-page novel. Maybe I'm just afraid that if I do publish what I already have, no one will read it. No one will love it as much as I do. They might not even like it. Fear has played a large part in my life in general. Fear of the unknown. Of being judged. Being hated, just for being me. Maybe the fact that I dislike my book's ending has nothing to do with the book itself. Maybe it's just a manifestation of that fear, telling me, "you can't do this. No one will like it. Just give up."

But I refuse to give up.

I make a vow to myself and the universe here and now that I will tell that inner voice to shove it. I vow that I will be published in the near future, whether or not anybody likes what I have written. Because I like it. I am proud of my work, and it deserves to be shared with the world.

If anybody has any objections to that, I don't really give a damn.