I’ve never finished a novel.

I finished and indie published an Advent devotional. I had an article published in a magazine. I’ve finished the first draft of my Lenten devotional manuscript. But my novels, tend to linger. I have one, maybe a quarter done moldering in the deep file storage of two or three laptops ago that I’ve all but abandoned. But this one, this current project felt meant to be from the first day I woke up with the idea and poured out 5000 words. Now at almost 60,000 (and several years later) I still have doubts.

The work has been slow. Imposter syndrome lingers on the fringes of my mental vision like a specter.
“You aren’t really a writer,” it says. “If you were you would be done by now. What self-respecting writer lives through quarantine without coming out the other side with a finished project?”

When I get interrupted for the thousandth time and my back hurts from sitting on my bed to write.
“Your life really isn’t set up for this. Maybe when the kids are older. But by then it will probably be too late.”

When I feel stuck on plot,
“This is it. You’ve reached the end. You knew you’d run out of steam eventually. Finishing is for real writers.”

“Someone else will write it first. Someone probably has. You’ve seen the Chosen. They have a monopoly on extra-biblical fiction. Nobody will want to hear anything some nobody-mom wrote who doesn’t even have a decent online following.”

The doubts swirl and whirl tearing at my confidence and creativity.

But I’m still writing. A few more words yesterday than the day before. A new side character here, a new plot solution there.

I may not make it before my self-imposed deadline. But I’m going to get there.