One of the categories of posts I have on this blog is confessions.  Why, you ask?  Because I think that when I confess my deepest thoughts and fears, it’s cathartic.  To date, I’ve made 14 confessional posts that range from my obsession with sweatpants to my irrational fears to the sporadic hatred I have for my unruly hair.

Bottom line is, writing about these things allows me to acknowledge my issues and to work through them.  The only thing I can do is apologize to my readers for thrusting you all into the role of a ‘sounding board’ but just know, it’s appreciated.  Greatly.

In the spirit of keeping my confessional trend rolling, today, I want to confess that I’ve been plagued by procrastination and have avoided writing the last 14 chapters of the novel I’ve been working on.  Not sure why.  It must be my own internal doubt that what I’m writing is nothing more than a pile of shit.  Not that it is, but I’m afraid that I’ll get to the end and realize I’ve wasted months on a big pile of unreadable crap.

My husband’s words already echo in my head as I’m writing this.  He is my biggest fan, and let me tell you, that means more to me than anything else in this world.  I know that I need to finish it.  There is so much left of the story I’ve created to tell, but when I sit down to write, my fingers refuse to caress my keyboard.

To be fair to myself, I need to re-commit to finishing it, and with the new year on the horizon, that will be one of my resolutions.  I know what you’re thinking – New Year’s resolutions often don’t come to fruition, but for me, this act of making a promise to myself provides the necessary motivation that I need.  I don’t like to let myself down so this is going to be one of them; to finish my book.

I know just completing it doesn’t make it officially done, but it will be one step closer.  Once I’ve completed it I can move to the editing process to polish it up.  Who knows, maybe one day it will be on the shelves in a bookstore.  Anything is possible, right?