Potential demands execution.
If a story holds promise, it is the writer’s obligation to meet it.
Well, my Cozy has gobs of potential. It reeks of high expectation. Stinks of prospective success. This should be a good thing, right?
Yeah, tell that to the OCD ravaging my head.
The more I write my Cozy, the more I feel like I’m failing it.
How self-flagellating is that crap?