When I was a teenager, my dad drove carpool and insisted on listening to his vast collection of show tunes on cassette tapes, and often, singing along. If it were the Andrews Sisters, he'd not only sing but pat the steering wheel and pretend to conduct. Since my pleading fell on deaf ears, I got used to it and subsequently, I don't embarrass all that easily.
I do, however, have an acute sense of shame. Dad singing Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and playing air-trumpet in a car full of your classmates? Embarrassing. Writing to your editor and telling her that you must break your contract because you know that you will not be completing your book anytime in the foreseeable future? Shame.
Writing a blog entry and telling the Loyal 157 the same thing? Shame times 157.
I have written, but the result has been pages. I don't have a book; I don't have anything close to a book. While I could list a dozen reasonable excuses (or at least six) they would be just that: excuses. If it were my heart's desire to write a book, there is very little that would stop me. Olive could be triplets, Beata could move back to Poland, and still, I would find a way to do the things I really wanted to do. I simply do not want it.
I do not want it enough.