I’m about two, maybe three scenes away from finishing my latest manuscript (not the sequel to Grime. That’s on tap for next month). But holy smokes. In the past forty-five minutes that I should have been working, I’ve:
- stared at the pencil container
- spun the chair in circles
- deleted emails from my i-phone
- sharpened my pencils
I don’t get this. I’m almost done—shouldn’t my brain be rushing for the finish line? Shouldn’t I be exalting on how close “the end” is? Makes me wonder if I have a fear of finishing (which then makes me wonder “why?” which then makes me feel like I need to think about this over tea and chocolate).