At least, I hope the end is near. I feel like the end is near. For my old story, the one I started a long time ago and am now powering on to a finish. I think.
I know that it’s going to take practice, many stories and many attempts, to really know when a story is heading to its (hopefully) inevitable and (hopefully) satisfying conclusion. So it’s good that I’m finishing this, however it turns out to be.
But my inner critic is trying to stop the process. Yelling as I write on about how the story isn’t very good and the characters aren’t consistent and the tone is all over the place and how do I expect anyone to believe anything that I’ve written? That voice is afraid, and I think it’s because I’m close to finishing. Otherwise, why would that little voice in my head even care?
On the one hand, I’m really proud of keeping up with my fiction writing every day so far this summer. Even when backpacking, even with all the crazy exercising I’m doing and the work that never seems to end for my job, I’m getting those words in.
On the other hand, I’m only getting small amounts of words in every day. And my inner critic cries out at that low output with a condescending sneer. ‘Oh, sure, you’re writing every day, but you’re hardly finishing anything and your stories grow at a snail’s pace!’
And I do my best to ignore that voice and all its myriad complaints and I write on.
Because the end of the story is near.