I’ve been stressing about finishing my book since, well, it feels like forever. I’ve been avoiding the conclusion for weeks (since the last fevered push, in fact). And what do I find when I finally open the file and look at it?
It’s a breeze. It’s virtually done. I even pretty much got that final concluding paragraph down (well, half of it: still want that knockout final sentence really). What was I worrying about again?
I don’t quite understand why my perceptions of where I’d got to with this thing were so far removed from the reality. I could have had this polished off with a few hours’ work any time in the last few weeks. Instead, I kept avoiding it because I was convinced it was a hideous deformed monster baby requiring radical surgery for which I didn’t have the time (or inspiration).
Two lessons from this:
1. I am a compleat fule.
2. If you’ve been putting off finishing that paper or chapter for the last month because you think it’s a pile of utter dreck, you could be as mistaken as I was. Stop avoiding it and do something about it.