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I’ve finished it. I’m done. It’s not totally done, but I did what I needed to do. I did what I set out to do and I did it in the allotted timeframe. I completed the little one-off short story that I’ve been thinking about for ages. Originally I gave myself until the end of the month to write it. And I was well on that path, even before October began. I had gotten to just under fourteen-hundred words when I had to stop. I hit a record scratch moment where I just wasn’t happy with what I was producing. The words I was writing were simply not my own. The progression was there, but the dialogue was centuries old. I didn’t know why I was writing so rigidly against the prompt, so I left it alone. For at least a week. I didn’t touch it or go near it. I had all but resigned to just let it go for good, thinking it just wasn’t worth it in the end.

Then one day, I found the ending. Something came straight from my heart and brought me to tears, and I just had to get it all down. After that, it became easy to write from the start, making my deadline a more manageable goal. However, earlier last week I decided I needed to finish before Friday was up after hearing a dire prediction about the UK monetary system. I thought I may as well cash out too, only I’d be taking my story with me.

It’s in the polish stage right now. I’m taking the time to revise and copy edit. Adding things here, condensing there, expanding this way, and contracting another way. I’m sure there’s still typos or things out of place. But the story is there. That’s the most important part. I kept my eyes open, feeling no embarrassment as I typed, enjoying the less graphic nature this time around.

It’s here. It exists. Now remains the question of what to do with it.

I can’t publish it here. I’m too nervous to do that. It’s far too personal, and not for everyone’s eyes. It may not even be what is wanted or expected and this whole exercise has been for naught. But it’s still done. No matter what happens, I made it real. Tangible. I took my time, I made it mine. Perhaps it has the power to change things. Perhaps not. It’s possible all has already been set into motion, and this will become nothing more than a footnote in my thirties. All I do know is I fell in love with it long ago and would have done anything for it. And as long as it has a proper ending, I can let it all go in peace.

I just figured this is the best way to let you know it’s done. It’s my way of shooting my very last shot, the only way I know how. It’s the way that makes the most sense right now, as my primary focus is on writing next month’s novel. I’m also not about to intrude upon a happy life uninvited, as I don’t know anyone’s status. And the fear of ultimate rejection is not something I’m willing to confront right now, considering how many times this has “ended” in the past. So a blog post about it will have to do. Meantime, I’ll be sitting here, doing what I’d be doing either way: Writing stories about us. I made that choice long ago, because it’s where I get the best material. Why wouldn’t I go toward what’s been working this whole time?

The world may be about to change for the good and final time, but that doesn’t mean all that once was can never be again. It all simply evolves. I’ve shed many layers but I certainly haven’t changed. I’m the same writer I’ve always been. I’ve just adapted to this life we’ve all found ourselves in. And I’m willing to keep writing this story of ours, as long as whoever’s reading wants to help turn the page. We’ve got an anthology on our hands with the potential to last a dozen lifetimes. Would be a shame to resign it to a life collecting dust.

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