|The desk is calling to me.|
Finish your shit.
But I have, I tell the ghostly voice in my head. I've got a novella, a novel, three or four short stories that are done. The drafts are finished. They're almost ready to go out to my trusted beta readers.
Fiiiiiniiiiishhh yoooooouuuuurrrrr shiiiiiit.
He's right. He caught the 'almost' I threw in there. I've got the write as fast as you can part down. I'm pretty good at that. I've even got editing my stuff into a readable draft covered. But actually 'finishing', meaning taking that story to a level where it's really ready to run naked out into the world, well - that I'm not so good at yet.
This requires a good deal of focus. What gets in the way are all the other ideas that have been waiting patiently in the green room of my head to get on stage. They're all clamoring for time in the light and time is the commodity I have little of. Of course, that's an excuse. I could find more time to write if I watched less TV, spent less time noodling around on Facebook and Twitter and playing Words With Friends.
All my excuses suck. I guess I haven't figured that part out yet.
Time to finish my shit.