indulgent

The countdown to Christmas vacation, excuse me, I mean winter break, is on. On one hand, I am so excited. If nothing else, just to sleep some more—which tells me how much older I am getting, I hate sleep and have never needed it so much. There are tons of Christmas activities that I am greatly looking forward to, my annual dinner being my favorite night of the year typically. I can’t even begin to say how excited I am to see Gavin open Christmas presents. He was so much fun at six months last year, it should even be better now!
Of course, Mr. Negative is alive and well, so part of me dreads Christmas break. HWMNBN has his birthday, and yes, I know, that shouldn’t affect me, but guess what…
The other reason, my goal is to finish and submit both novels, The Shattered Door (resubmit) and Submerging Inferno (for the first time), by New Year’s Eve.
I have considered putting them away and just stopping. I’ve gotten very mixed reviews on them from the people who have read them, some claiming to love them, others not even able to finish reading them. I don’t want to waste my time. I don’t want to constantly be the guy talking about the book he’s writing. You know that guy, the one who is all talk and nothing ever happens. Even beyond that, it just is starting to feel like an ill-fated fight with destiny. Contrary to what I believed without reservation growing up, I no longer feel like I am destined to have ‘all my dreams come true.’ Just the opposite in fact. The past gets more and more powerful, not less—at least for me, which is doubly hard when I’m not even an afterthought in his mind. My family’s financial situation worsening and worsening. Custody always being in question and so much fear of what that may ultimately bring. The man in the mirror becoming less and less familiar every day. Who am I fooling? The man that used to think he could do anything, that anything was really possible seems like a fool and long dead. The pervasion of feeling of being finished and done continues to grow and has been rather crippling as of late. Despite the fact that I really am trying to live once more. It’s more like I’m trying to follow a script, force myself to appear alive, as if by faking it long enough, it will be reality.
If I am able to finish them and turn them in, or even more so, write other novels, it will only be due to not having an option. Kinda like my faith in God. I’ve gone too far to back out now. I would be nothing at all if I didn’t believe He were there, that He is with me. Likewise, I’ve gone too long with writing to turn back. I started Shattered about five years ago, written and re-written it, with two and a half other books in-between, and countless beginnings of stories that were never finished spanning over a decade before that. If I feel like a failure now, like I’m finished, how much more would that overwhelm me if I didn’t keep trudging along. However, I can’t really suppress the sensation of being an ant marching forward, thinking he’s about to reach his destination, never knowing a hurricane will send a wave to devour before he ever gets there.