Me, Opener of Doors and Ignorer of Breezes

I am, by nature and nurture, a productive person. Productive in a very specific way--I am a constant creator. When I am blessed with a few hours away from Finley, I get to work on a song, a sketch, or a story. Very rarely do I simply sit and surf the web, or take a nap. I like to work creatively.

Ha, I honestly try to pass off "creative work" as "actual, helpful, efficient work" when it really isn't, most of the time. It's just an exhausting, soul-searching hobby until it earns you a living.

My problem is not ever motivation to begin, or to work towards a middle. My problem lies in the ending. This is partly because I get attached to my work and hate the idea of seeing it finalized, out of my head and tangible at last.

It's also partly because it's so much more fun to make a mess than it is to clean one up.

I have good news, though.
But first, let's walk through the cemetery of deceased works.

In 2009 I finally sat down and wrote a book: The Garden. I wrote it in less than a month. I was manic, heavily drugged, and the book shows it. It is truly terrible. Excerpts of it were reviewed by Sue Grafton (who hated it) and Sue Monk Kidd (who so-soed it). You can read those reviews here. They are far kinder than I would have been.
Word count: 60,000 (okay, so technically a novella)
Finished? Yes.
Edited? Never.
Abandoned? Absolutely. Dead and buried.

Then I popped out a baby and took a hiatus from writing fiction, and when I returned to my old craft, this is what came out. This is Fishing With Eden, which doesn't make me cringe as much as The Garden does, but was ultimately going nowhere. It was lost to my laptop, and recovered several months later, but unfortunately I care nothing for the characters anymore.
Word count: 32,000
Finished? Nope.
Edited? Nah, more like dissected and sold for parts.
Abandoned? Yes yes. RIP Fishing for Eden

The end of 2010 and the beginning of 2011, I was working on this beauty, The Suiciders. I rarely think in terms of high-paced action-based stories--unfortunately, when I daydream up fiction, it involves characters speaking in metaphors while sipping lattes in a horrible cliche. This was something different, very fast and violent.
I was away from my laptop for two weeks. I lost my fire. I was done. That's a pathetic reason, but the truth.
Word count: around 38,000
Finished? No, it's missing the final third.
Edited? No.
Abandoned? No. I still feel some life in this one. It's a story I can't get out of my head at night.

Ah, The Art Scientist. Hmmm, can't comment on much, except to say that I love working on it.
Word count: So far, around 60,000, but it is worked on nightly
Finished? Not yet
Edited? Not yet
Abandoned? Not yet

Here's the good news.
I just finished a young adult novel, the first in a trilogy. I sat down to write the book I wish the library had when I was sixteen. I am proud. I am tired. I have given it a rough edit. I am sending off a query letter, or two, or two hundred. I wish I was kidding about that.
I am not sick of it yet, surprisingly. I feel like my practice on those first desperate attempts at novels prepared me to write and finish this.

Word count: 98, 200
Finished? Yes
Edited? Working on that...
Abandoned? Never!

How could I not write a fantasy novel? One that incorporates Ireland, swimming, the ocean, secrets, tokens, pirates, leviathans, cursed jewelry, and strong, mysterious women? The book spilled out of me. Book two is drafted, book three is drafted. I'm just waiting for a weekend in a cabin and a bottle full of Adderall to write them. Gotcha! I don't use Adderall. Just turn on Glee and tell me I can either watch that or write my book.

I am a writing machine. But honestly, I'm just proud of myself for finishing it.

But before you get all jealous and hateful of my bout of productivity (4.0 GPA, finished novel, darling child who hasn't been rushed to the ER yet), just know that I also am still chubby and just got a new zit on my chin. So you can go ahead and give me Internet props, knowing I am powerful but still human.