So here I am again, after another weekend when I didn't get enough done because I just can't face editing any more. But I can't actually finish it unless I get the this editing done.
It isn't even the novel I set out to write any longer. I would need at least another 50000 words for that and I don't have it, not for this one. Yes, it has beautiful sentences, and it has soul and pathos, and wit and all those things - I love a lot of it. But I just don't feel it anymore.
What I do feel is like when you're in a bad relationship where the sex is still good so you hang around for that reason and that reason alone. But you know you really should end it because life's out there and who knows what will come along if you just dump this clown.
But I'm so close. I can't just walk away. The orgasmic accomplishment I'm going to feel when I type "the end" - I can almost taste it.
So I guess I'll give it until the deadline of my birthday weekend. Then I am, and I think I've said this before, going to print out a copy and burn it. Just like you do with all your old boyfriends.
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