I have a novel I have been working on for longer than the life of my eight year old daughter. I see the end. Maybe twenty thousand words away, whatever that means. All I have to do is write, just to finish, just to accomplish the task hanging around my neck like a 45lb plate. I'm working on getting 500 words a day, just to finish the goddamn story. I hate it. I hate everything I am writing. I want it to be better. I want to go back to the beginning and edit the shit out of it and I hate editing. I once loved my story, I still like it, like the girl you used to date but ended things because it was kind of annoying, but now that she is single again you think about hitting her up, knowing things couldn't have changed that much and it will still be annoying. That is how I feel about this book. But I have to finish it. And then what? Take another decade to reluctantly edit the beast? Burn it? I just need to finish. Closure, right? Ok, back to sticking my finger down my throat to purge out another 500 words.