Yesterday was brilliant. I wrote 2k in half the time it usually takes me and I finally untangled the last few knots in this enormous ball of wool that's my novel. I went to bed on a high, ready to tackle the next bit today.
Guess how much I don't want to write today?
What made sense yesterday seems ridiculous this morning.
My writing is shitty, filled with adverbs and adjectives and waaaay too self-conscious.
Coming to the end, my wife expressed her excitment about getting out her red pen to whip it into shape and, when I muttered something about 'no way' and 'not yet', an incredulous 'But this is the third draft!"
And I think that's it.
It's the third bleedin' draft. It should be better than this. I should be better than this. and yesterday I thought I was, but today it's as though I've gone fifty steps backwards. I don't want anyone to see how much I haven't improved and what a waste of time it's all been.
I'm being silly. I know that in a hour or a day I'll be on top of the world again; I know what needs improvement and changing and how to make it better, but UGH! It's hard not to ket the 'no' days consume me. I can't wait 'til it's done and in a drawer for two months, and then I can come at it with fresh eyes and an unclogged mind.
Nearly there.
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