As I fumble through the last few chapters of the first book I've actually finished in over four years, I question my arrogance in thinking anyone will want to read anything I put out after being invisible for so long. Perhaps this is why I'm so consistent in starting books but never finishing them. The fear of not just rejection but total dismissal is a powerful one. Safer to set aside and start anew than finish what I start.
My husband jokes that he is going to take a cue from the men in my books and spank me until I finish something. We laugh, but I'm not entirely sure he's joking these days.
Little Nikki's picture stares back at me from my screen, begging me to finish her story so she can share it. She's quite a precious kitten, and impossible for me to say no to for very long. I've already missed my self imposed deadline to get her wrapped up and sent to the publisher by a couple of weeks, but she and I can smell the ending now and she's giggling with glee.
