So, I’ve started the new book. A thousand words have hit the page. An idea is taking shape. This first word, first paragraph, first page will condition the whole of the next year as the plot develops and redevelops.
Then, a finish line in perhaps a year but that’s the cruel bit because I know that finish line is an illusion. Re-read, change, review. Lose sleep, think what a waste of time it’s been. Re-group, start again the re-write won’t take long, will it? Maybe another year, maybe another month.
Why did I start this? Was it worth the effort? Will anybody love it like I do? Maybe a few, maybe many, hey I might get discovered. Then again I might not.
Shit, who wants to be a writer? Just got to give that rock another shove up that impossible hill.