I am close to finishing the first draft of a novel on which I have been working for nearly two years.  But close, as Rene Russo mysteriously observed in Lethal Weapon 3, is a lingerie shop without a front window[i].

What possessed me to write a novel?  Why a fantasy novel?  Will anyone take me seriously if I write genre fiction?  Why do I care if people take me seriously?  What if the story is rubbish?  Not good enough to be published?  Not good enough to make any money?  How much longer can I keep doing this without making any money?  What will I say to my wife when the rejection letters start pouring in?

This constant stream of doubts and negative thoughts is slowing me down and making it harder to write.  I don’t think I’m the first writer to feel this way!  This article is about getting over the finish line in the face of my own fears, without killing my creativity and just writing “fish” twenty thousand times.

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