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time I’ve spent my creative juices on writing that earns money, there’s not much left in the tank for my novel. A couple of writer friends and I meet once or twice a month, lock ourselves in a library study room, and work on our novels. We call these sessions Accountability Days, and no socializing is allowed until lunch afterward. I make good progress on those days, but not nearly enough.

I’ve also set deadlines for myself. They never hold. I know they’re artificial, and knowing that seems to be all the permission I need to blow right past them. I’d hoped to have a first draft done before August this year. That ship has sailed. I’ve adjusted my deadline to the end of the year.

Some nights I lie awake wondering if I’ll spend years on this thing and it won’t matter to a single soul—won’t earn a penny. Other days, I read what I wrote last week and think it’s the best writing of my lifetime—then read it again a week later and wonder who let me near a keyboard. Turns out those feelings of self-doubt and frustration are not unique. That’s just what being a writer feels like a lot of the time.

So will I finish it? Yes. I may have to retire first, but yes, I’ll eventually finish it.

I keep wondering how the great book authors of the world managed to work a day job and write their novels. Whatever their secret is, I intend to find my own version of it and get The Mercy Tree onto a shelf at Barnes & Noble before I die.

In the meantime, I’ll keep showing up to my Accountability Days. I’ll keep chasing my artificial deadlines, even knowing I’ll probably miss the next one too. I’ll keep believing that my story deserves to be told. That’s enough to keep me going. And going— it turns out—is how novels eventually get finished. One writing session at a time.