I am actually nearing the completion of my book, and it terrifies me. I am admitting it.

It has been the excuse for many things. To freelance instead of committing to a full-time job, which has been a great decision. To give me the headspace to write. To have ice cream, talk about it constantly, and wonder what else I could do to make the book better.

But it must come to an end. Partially, because I made a commitment and it would disappoint myself so much that I couldn’t follow through. Flakiness is not within myself (although tardiness is prevalent). I always…eventually…show up.

A year ago, this whole project paralyzed me and I often laid in bed, wondering what I was doing. Twisted underneath the blankets, the enormity of the project weighed down physically on my body. The expectations, the rejection I got from publishers, and the unknown. But somehow I came to terms with it and I woke up. I sought help and slowly finished it. And now it’s really here.

What if all it takes now is to walk to the door and open it? Then close it with a satisfying slam. It’s done, I yell, it’s done, I whisper, and that doneness ripples through my body wrenching a familiar feeling away. Then I think: what’s next?