About three weeks ago, I finished the fourth re-write of my first novel and printed out the entire manuscript for the first time.  Since then, that pile of paper has sat on my desk next to my Mac, ready for me to start the next re-write.

Just shy of 90,000 words, I have stroked it a few times whilst basking in a little glow of self-achievement but, my bubble always bursts as the title sheet stares coldly back at me saying

 ‘What are you waiting for?  I’m not going to re-write myself!’

I have reached the point of no return and I am terrified.  I want to cry.  I want to run away from it. I want to read Stephen King’s On Writing … again …  on a desert island with no interruptions, because I seem to have forgotten everything he said.

I want to go to sleep and wake up to find it has all been done.

Beautifully re-sculpted as a darn good read.  

Not being able to achieve this is what terrifies me.  More than ever, I need to keep the faith.