I just read a blog post about what the blogger called the “one” book, the one that you’re apparently destined to write because you’ve been whacking away at it for ten years and can’t leave it be. The chances are that any book that’s been hanging around your neck for that long is an albatross, not destiny. If you’re writing other things during that time, then it’s a harmless case of wishful thinking. But if it’s keeping you from writing anything else, the excuses you make are just that — excuses. That abortion of a book isn’t an inspiration or a goad, it’s simply a dead weight that needs to be cast overboard.
If there’s one thing that humans are good at, it’s making excuses, finding rationales and justifications. They’re the lifeline that would-be writers cling to, afraid to admit that they’re never going to write that book or any other book.