Last November, I completed NaNoWriMo. I sat down and wrote out 50,000 words in the month of November. And since that time, my book has been staring me in the face. It sits in the folder, all alone.
For whatever reason, I am afraid of my own book. Afraid to finish. I know what the next steps are, and where I need to take the plot. I have a million and one writing resources. I don't touch those either. Steven Pressfield calls it Resistance, with a capital R. I think he's right.
This is the thing I am meant to do, write. I know it. Yet, I still deny it, still run from it, still allow my ego to distract me. I know if I finish, then I am obligated to get the book out there. Whether through traditional publishing, or self-publishing, it has to happen. I never give myself a deadline, so then it is impossible for me to fail.
I am making a promise, a public promise. My book will be finished by Dec 31st, 2015. Good, bad, ugly. Whatever it is, it will be. Because my soul longs for this. I am dying to get my stories out and for some reason decided it's okay to punish myself and not do the thing I love the most.
Ridiculous. So my ego is going on a shelf, in trade for my dream. My real, true dream of being a published novelist and a freelance writer. There. I said it. Now that wasn't so, hard was it? What is the dream you are running from? Sit down, pound it out and do it. Because it will never let you go if you don't.