Dreadful. The whole thing is rubbish.

The characters are bland and one dimensional. The plot is tired and redundant. Even though I have yet to write the ending, I can already tell it’s going to feel uninspired and lackluster.

The only thing preventing me from quitting is something that’s been proven time and time again to be mental trick. The sunk cost fallacy. I’ve come this far so I might as well see it all the way through. I know that fallacy dictates that I should cut my losses and stop, but my mind is dumb and I can’t overcome the urge to just see it through. There’s something poetic about the union of how bad this story is and how I’m mentally insufficient to stop.

OK, OK I’ll stop being the absolute worst to myself. If I interrogate why I’m so committed to finishing the book, I’m sure this doesn’t fit a sunk cost.

There it is. Right below all my attitude and self-loathing is an ambitious writer. Someone who has always wanted to write a book. Scratch that, not just one book, but many. To grow as a writer and become a proud author.

So why am I seeing this crap book to its finish? Because sure, this one is crap, but maybe the next one will be less stinky and the one after that even less, until finally I write something that’s not excrement, but something edible, maybe one day even delicious.

But the fact that I used excrement and delicious in the same sentence means I have a long way to go. It’s a journey I’ll happily go on, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be complaining the whole way.