Writing a book is a grind. Maybe JK Rowlings can kick out a fat once every year. I’m not so lucky. I’ve got 253 pages to show for a year’s worth of effort, with about a hundred pages to go.

Writing fiction is hard work. It’s emotionally taxing. It’s all consuming. And now that I’m at mile 22 of this marathon, I wonder why I’m bothering. What’s to be gained? Occasionally I get a warm fuzzy feeling that it will ultimately be a good read. But then reality sets in. I flip-flop and chide myself for such a sophomoric attempt.

Perhaps most frustrating is that I'm writing because I have something to say. But conveying the message is more difficult than I imagined. I’ll keep plugging away. I’m determined to cross the finish line, if for no other reason than to say I did it.