Eating the Elephant

By Wendy A. Jones

I am a starter.

I am not a finisher.

I have fabric and patterns; I have stacks of cardboard in my garage; I have plans drawn in notebooks; I have lists; I have ideas.

What I don't have are about seven dresses, three skirts, a cardboard sculpture of a tree, and/or upholstered storage boxes in my entryway.

I bought a book once because I didn't quite feel in control of my house. There was too much clutter, too many projects, too much stuff. I can't even remember the title. It was something like Mission: Organization. In the introduction, the author said, "The key to organization is finishing things."

I closed the book.

(I haven't finished it.)

I realized that was the skill I needed to figure out first. Before I could organize anything, I had to figure out how to finish things.

I'm pleased to say I'm getting better, but I still stink at finishing.

Take writing, for instance. I have been writing seriously for five years.

FIVE YEARS.

And I have yet to finish a novel.

(I did finish two picture books, though. I've got to throw bones to myself when I can.)

Why is it taking so long?

The reasons are many and varied. We all have our reasons, I'm sure, and some are perfectly legitimate.

However, I've realized this writing . . . thing, for lack of a better word, is something I want.

Badly.

It won't leave me alone.

The words in my current WIP don't come easily. I have to drag them out of myself and shake them loose from my fingers--and it feels like half of the text is highlighted for me to come back and fix.

Still.

I will finish my book someday.

I will overlook the fabric and cardboard and notebooks of plans and look instead at the things I have finished: two skirts and two aprons and a blanket and a dress and a cabinet and some bookcases. And two children's books!

I do finish things.

I do.

It just takes me awhile.

I haven't written much through the summer; vacation and kids and gardens and a residential schedule and a new calling have made my schedule erratic to say the least. I kept a notebook tucked in my purse, though, and jotted things down when I was waiting for the dentist or sitting by the drain (my 4-year-old's current obsession). Not much, really, just a sentence here or there.

When I went to type it into my computer the other day, I was shocked and pleased to see the word count reach almost 1500 words.

If, over a couple of months, I can write 1500 words while not writing, how many could I write when I'm really trying?

How do you eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

Chomp.

Nom-nom-nom-nom.

Gulp.

I'll let you know when I'm finished.