I put the words together a couple of years ago. At the time they flowed like some beautiful river, pounding down a mountainside and gathering in a lake of chapters that made perfect sense. I loved every minute I wrote them, hardly waiting until the kettle was boiling in the morning before adding to the word count and staying up late into the night to storm my way through another chapter.
It all made perfect sense, the plot was a dream and came together without a conscious thought. I allowed it to go where it needed to go, we were in harmony, blood sisters. My characters padded themselves out to become nicely rounded individuals, and my research fitted in like a well worn glove, seamlessly sliding in to the whole to create a realistic and believable world.
WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
Have I been suffering from delusions of writing all this time?
Now I look at it and I find that it resembles one of my grandad's string vests, full of enormous holes that need to be patched and repaired. The more I look, the more there are. They are growing by the hour, horrible loopy things, hanging in a tangled mess of unresolved threads.
Hang on, hold up, wait just a minute, I still have a little faith...don't I?
Oh shit, better get a move on......