I know, I know–I should be working on my novel. The open file glares at me accusingly, waiting for me to actually spend some time with it today, but at the moment, I just can’t.

I don’t think writer’s block is my problem; I know exactly where I’m going next with this chapter, with this character. My problem is more in the area of motivation: I feel like I need a break.

I’ve been working on this novel for the better part of the year and I feel like the end is finally in sight. But instead of being energized to sprint through the last few chapters remaining, I feel a soul-deep weariness of the work dropping me like a stone in sight of the finish line. Is that writers’ block? I don’t know–maybe writers’ fatigue is more accurate.

I can hear some people snickering out there:  Fatigue? How hard is it to write for a living? You want something really hard? Try being Bobby Jindal and being the closing act for Obama last night–that’s hard. 

But scoff if you will, truly, writing is not easy much of the time. It requires a level of concentration and focus that is often hard to sustain, and mental exertion can tire you just as physical exertion does. And I am tired. I am tired of this book. I am tired of dealing with my characters’ problems. I am ready to wrap things up,  ready to start pulling the strings shut on this bag of tricks, ready to type those beautiful two words “The End”, and yet, I still have so far to go.

I remember running track in high school (for all of five minutes) and the coach telling me that it was when you could see the finish line that you had to push the hardest. Mentally, I recognize this, but in practice, I am having a hard time recovering my motivation to complete what I began a year ago. I am a feast for Distraction; she stalks me relentlessly, ready to devour my thoughts at a moment’s weakness.

The sun is shining brightly through my office window; I see an occasional bird chirping at the feeder outside; I can hear the steady dripping of the icicles melting down from the roof. The signs of Spring, that horrible tease, have come to Minnesota for the afternoon, and they are calling me to come out and play just as they did when I was a child.

Is it cabin fever? Is it boredom? Does this mean I’ve gone wrong somewhere in the last couple of chapters and veered off track somehow?

I don’t know. All I know is I’m ready to be done with this book now, not in a month, when I think I will be.

Okay, then. I’ll allow myself one final, lingering glance out the window at the sun sparkling on the dwindling snow…ahhh.

Back to work.