It’s official: the story idea I’ve been working on for the last three weeks is book-sized, not a short story. My wife confirmed my suspicions when I told her the plot over breakfast. It’s a bit of a relief that I don’t have to write it, like hearing that I don’t have to drink twelve gallons of water today after all.
But it’s also a disappointment. I’ve been trying for almost three months to finish enough short stories for my book, and I am still working on that last 15,000 words. I am already behind schedule and some days I feel like I will never finish.
But it’s also good news in disguise. The story I finished earlier this month – even though it was ambitious by my standards, it needs to go still deeper before it’s good enough. The idea I let go of today – it’s a book, not a story, and it will be difficult to write if I ever pick it up again.
I’m getting less satisfied with my own work. This is a good sign. It means if I keep working I might jump off my current plateau. The frustration is a necessary precursor to progress.
But, Lord, before making me even more awesome as a writer please let me finish this damn book. Thank-you, Amen.