Back in November, as I was savoring the last mild temperatures of the year, I finally sat myself down and dug in to sort out the rest of my plot. Ever since I shook things up, I’ve just been treading water. Unable to write much further without plotting a course (pardon the pun), and uninspired every time I tried to think my way through to a new ending.

I got it all sorted out that day (at least enough for this first draft) and once again felt invigorated to finish this beast. I finally set myself a deadline, and let my two writing confidants know what it was.

I’m proud to say that despite a nagging head cold, a recent somber funeral, the waning daylight, a resurgence from the beast of self-doubt, and holiday planning in the mix, I’m on track to finish my draft by December 25th. It’s going to be my Christmas present to myself.

With eight days to go, I’ve got four chapters left to write. And though the page count above doesn’t show it (I’ve had to backtrack a tad and cut out now-irrelevant bits, at least 15 pages worth) I’ve made considerable, steady  progress over the past few weeks.

Do I love it? No. Is it the best stuff I’ve ever written? I doubt it. But I’m going to finish this sonofabitch in 2016 come hell or high water. Might even leave it out for Santa to have a peek while he eats his cookies and milk.

I’ll admit; I’m excited. I know there will still be a lot of work to do after Christmas—I’ve already gone back and redlined a bunch of stuff that will need to be fixed or rewritten—but that doesn’t bother me.

I’m just excited to find out what having a finished draft feels like.

Maybe after nearly four years, I can start feeling normal again. Maybe not.
But either way…

Ima finish this beyotch.

Write on.