The scent is utterly recognizable. To him it is serenity. To some the musk, the leather and the age would bring up disconcerting emotions. For him, his blood pressure drops and his mind clears. There is no description that can do the ambiance justice. This is a place while full is vacant of any worries.
The need to escape now is greater than ever. Destruction, death and apathy weigh heavily on the soul. It ages a man far past his years, the lines are added to his face, the stress upon his heart. An escape if only for a moment can bring immeasurable relief.
He enters the room fully and makes his way to his faithful chair. Sinking into it, he closes his eyes and reaches for the side table out of instinct. His fingertips feel the etched writing on its spine. Opening his eyes the book, The Great Gatsby, was in front of him. His eyes adjusted to the text, he let go of any remaining grasp on reality.
Survival if only for a page was undeniably his.
I think that has to be the reason I haven’t finished the first draft of my latest novel. I have tried and tried to finish it over the last few weeks and I seem to find any excuse possible not to. Even this blog update is a form of procrastination.
Do you know what the worst part is? I know exactly how I want the end to work out, I have the basic outline so the writing can take me there but I can seem to bring myself to write it. I really like the novel itself, I think it has great potential……
Maybe I am afraid after all this work it will be horrible? Maybe I am afraid it won’t live up to my expectations? Maybe I am afraid that it won’t be worth editing? I don’t think I believe any of this but I seem to be sabotaging myself subconsciously….
Is anyone else afraid of the end?
What helps you break through the final wall?