I handed in the last essay of my creative writing degree today. Even though I’m still slogging through some pretty mediocre poetry, I feel finished. And it’s a nice feeling.
It’s something I don’t get very much from my creative stuff, because I’m terrible at re-writing. I write it, get feedback and can’t be bothered. This is a bad thing.
Because now I just have a shit-tonne of half-finished word documents and rough drafts that have the potential to be good, if only I could drag myself out of the lazy-hole. And if I don’t get motivated soon and start finishing what I started then I’m going to die an old woman smothered and strangled by loose papers and workshopping sheets.
The complicated thing about finishing a story is that it’s never truly finished. The (few) stories of mine that are complete are cringe-worthy and stale when I read them after a while, and I just want to go over them with a big red pen.
This begs the question: will I be stuck in Unfinished-Land forever? Probably, if I don’t try harder.
Because I figure if I can turn some drafts into stories then I’ll have clawed my way out just a little, and at least they’ll be finished for a while, before I go back to them with my big red pen in hand.