I know why I am writing – to get the story out, to see it develop, to discover how it will all end.  All of these reasons have been said many times before and all reinforce the fact that I can finally admit I am writing for myself.  But now that the gist of it is done, and now that I have been spinning my wheels editing for a couple months, I am contemplating my intended destiny for the story.  Would anyone else actually want to read it?  It there any purpose in my effort to perfect the prose?  Is it good enough?  Is it unique enough?  Should I continue trying to fill in the gaps?  And, why?    
Is this a normal step in the life of a writer?  (Yes, I just called myself a writer.)  Does everyone ask themselves these questions?  Did Herman Melville wonder who in their right mind would want to read a story about a fishing trip?  (Trivia: Moby Dick was published exactly 160 years today)  Did Norman Mailer worry that 300,000 some words might be a bit much?     
Out of sheer exasperation/frustration/confusion/bewilderment, I technically haven’t looked at the story for about two weeks.  Less jotting down an idea or two, my words have stagnated on my laptop. 
However, despite the lack of physical work, the perils of Christine have never left my mind.  As I contemplate continuing, I look for signs that I should keep on keeping on.  I have found not a one – at least none that have blasted out of the sky like a booming voice or a burning bush.  I suppose the answer lies in the fact that I am still thinking about it.  Daily.  Since I feel I still have something to give to the project, I guess it’s time to make a u-turn and head back to the very beginning.  (It’s a very good place to start so says Julie Andrews…)