Day 228

I'm almost done.  I wanted to do Pilates tonight, but was a good little girl and wrote.  I am bound and determined to send this out for reading on the 15th and so I'm trying to work sometimes in the wee hours of the night (which is after 10 for this old lady) so it will be somewhat ready.
I hate this part of it.  I'm so scared that it won't be good and I need to know if it isn't any good, but that will be hard to hear. 
A lady I know said she had heard that I was a good writer and I asked her if she had ever read anything I've written.  "No," she said, "but I believe what I've heard."   She then looked at me searchingly, and asked, "Do you believe it?"

And it is in that question, where the whole point lies, for every writer's heart.  Do I believe I am a good writer?  Do all of us who labor to tell a story, bear our souls, believe that we have something of value, worth sharing, worth leaving our mark for?  And I finish this novel, not even because I think it's the best thing I've ever written, but because I grow as I write it and there's value in that journey.