Writers can come up with an astonishing array of reasons whey they can't finish this piece or that piece, why they can't write the book they'd planned-- at least not now.
One of my excuses has been experience. When I was young, I put off tackling fiction, telling myself I would do it when I had lived more, acquired enough experience.
Now that I'm finally working on a book-length project, I've found another excuse. I have too much experience. My knowledge is about things that happened so long ago that they are out of fashion. Nobody knows about or cares about my themes, plots, characters, settings any more.
Fortunately, my Muse knows that is not true. Though it often appears otherwise, the world is a place of balance and symmetry. I have a story to tell: ergo, somebody wants, needs, awaits my story.
Also, the writing gene is persistent. The relentless need to finish my book creates intense pressure within me. There can be no peace until I finish. And that is a good thing.
That knowledge assures me that I can and will finish my novel, no matter what tricks my monkey mind plays in its effort to make me give up.
Writer's block may be real or it may not; either way, I refuse to let it defeat me.
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