They weigh on my mind, lurking ever in the background, beckoning me to return and give them the closure they need.
I have a few unfinished stories. I need to get to them, and get them out of my head, but sometimes the effort to do so is just… weirdly beyond me. They require a level of brain power that I can’t muster when I think of them.
The worst, by far, is the last book in a fantasy trilogy that really does need to be finished and published.
The problem with this book is that I should never have written it as a trilogy in the first place. The first in the series was initially a standalone, and it didn’t need a sequel. But I foolishly thought that I should bow to market pressures and simply write it as a series, because series sell better than single novels.
I should never have done it.
Somehow I wrote a second book, and now I have to write a third and let it be done, forever. But I just can’t metabolize the story in my mind! There’s some level of processing required for a novel, and times where you do nothing but think about it for a while without actually writing it, and I can’t seem to get there because I’ve come to dislike it. All of it.
The characters are insipid. The world-building is poor. The plot is nebulous. This is not even in the top ten of my best work, and I worry that it will affect my career in future. But write it I must, somehow, because the story has to end and be thrown unceremoniously out of my mind.
I know, I know. I need to push myself. I’m becoming neurotic again. I can almost grasp the ending, when I think about it too closely, but gods above, I need more time.