One of the things I spoke about in writing group this summer is that I'm bad at
finishing. Whether it's knitting or writing or whatever, I like the beginning and developmental stages, but not so much the finishing stage. This, I suppose, is because the finishing is often tedious, and it precedes submitting my work to others with the implicit (if not explicit) message, "This is the best I could do."
And then, alas, I can be judged.
Nevertheless, I finished something this summer, and I gave it to my godson, who, when I saw him in June and gave him his blanket, was eight months old.* And, if I do say so myself, I think it's fantastic:
*I think maybe finishing this wasn't so scary because I keep telling myself, "He's just a baby! He won't care about mistakes!"
