This summer I finished the rough draft of a novel I’ve been mulling over for several years. It felt good to have an entire draft completed. It was better than I was afraid it would be, but worse than I’d hoped it would be. Now, all I have to do is revise and edit. That I can do. I could probably revise and edit for years. And years. Anything’s better than finally saying, okay, this is it. This is my best effort. I’m ready to be judged. The rough draft has been sitting in a tatty file folder on my ottoman for about three weeks now. The days go by, and the pile of newspapers, sketch pads, half read books and paper plates with sandwich crumbs waxes and wanes on top of the folder, hiding, then revealing, then hiding again my secret: I may never complete my novel.