I'm a 96-year old man, and I've finished my novel. I hear your excuses.
"Who has the time?"
I could die at any time. Hasn't kept me from paragraphing.
I invented tired.
"I have writer's block."
A year ago my colon was blocked for three weeks. During that time I finished six chapters and a ship in a bottle. The ideas will make it through, even if nothing else will.
"My novel is based on my life experiences, and it might embarrass people close to me."
You've got a point there. What am I saying? I'm 96. I don't give a damn what people think. Besides, all the people who were close to me are dead.
"I can't find the right publisher."
Afraid of a nasty rejection letter? I could die at any time, but you don't see me quaking in my Barcalounger.
"I would, but I'm busy blogging."
Kids these days.