Your work-in-progress is killing you.

That's the truth. But don't tell anyone that. No one wants the truth. It's better to say something like 'it's coming together, the end's in sight, thanks for asking'. People nod and smile. Conversation moves on. Life moves on. Everyone moves on. Except for you.

You can't move on. You are stuck.

You change the story at the expense of character. You change a character at the expense of story. You realize you're a pantser. You realize you're a plotter. You write sober. You write drunk. You write with money as your motivation (haha). You write with revenge as your motivation (hahaha). You feel horny at the sight of the blank page. You feel impotent at the sight of the blank page. You merge two characters into one. You split a character into two. You believe people when they tell you the first book was great. You believe people are lying to your face when they tell you the first book was great. You kill the pop culture references. You add in 3 pages about Roxy Music’s discography coz why the fuck not. You hate other writers. You hate yourself. You get a fully formed idea for a different book that would be so much easier to write. You keep chipping away at your sprawling hunk of shit coz it would be such a huge waste to quit now.

That's your work-in-progress. It's killing you.

My work-in-progress?

It's coming together. The end's in sight. Thanks for asking.

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