Yesterday, the kids and I were talking about when my daughter was in preschool. I made the comment that it was nice--during the time she was in preschool, my son would nap and I would write.
"You have been working on your book that long?" my son asks.
"Well, I've started a few things along the way, and I've rewritten it a few times now but...yes."
"Mom! That's six years! That's almost my whole life!"
Chastened, I left the breakfast dishes in the sink and sat down with the computer while they played games downstairs. The last six years have slipped by rather quickly. I actually have made much progress but it never feels "done." I've got too many other stories in my head to keep wasting time with this one, however. I'm going to work on it NOW.
Well, after one more comment. I included Infinite Jest in a previous post as a book I feel guilty about not finishing. Much like the book I'm writing, I made it most of the way through but never finished. The author, David Foster Wallace, passed away recently. I wonder what he left unfinished.