I’m having one of those days, the kind where you say, “What’s the point?”  Why have I wasted all these hours trying to write a book, when that book will never be good enough to be read?  I could have been doing so many other things with all those hours!

Then I started to list all those other things, and writing an unread novel didn’t seem quite so bad.  Instead of writing, I’d most likely have been watching mind-numbing television, or shopping for shoes I don’t really need, or cleaning windows, weeding my flower beds, or doing laundry.  Or reading a GOOD book or spending time with my family.  Other than the quality family time, and maybe the book, none of those is really worth regretting.  I feel better now.

This all started because I sent my newly revised first and second chapters to my critique partner for review.  I thought they were finished and fabulous.  She, of course, disagreed.  And curse her, as I always do, because she’s right.  I just have to remind myself that she didn’t say the chapters were hopeless–just not intense enough to make her want to read the rest of the book and somewhat “overdone.”

So, do I go back to work and revise some more, or do I buy a new pair of shoes tonight?


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