Oh, woe is me. I am some kind of major fool masochist. So there I was, nearing the end of the hardest nine months of my life courtesy of my new career, and what do I do? Pile a load of new pressure on myself, that's what. Why did I decide to publish a book on my own exactly now?
Because I wanted to. Oh.
Well, anyway. The bloody thing still isn't edited, and there are various tedious hold-ups and setbacks...
Oh well, actually the "setbacks" consisted of me being slightly paranoid, which has just been unconfirmed by email.
My main problem is that what I really need right now is the freedom to say "When the kids are in bed I will kick back, watch telly, drink beer and sleep as much as I damn well please" for the first time in a long time... except I can't cos I have to finish this edit.
Oh well. I brought it on myself. And now I'd better get back to it.
I'll just rabbit a little more first.
Of course there are the usual self-hating woes, but I do have a recurring habit of focusing on one small flaw and deciding the whole edifice is a pile of shit. Which really isn't true, and anyway all the flaws are fixable. Which of course means more editing... but it's worth it. It has to be good.
Coming soon: Blog posts about stuff other than books. Maybe.
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