I had set aside today to re-read what I’ve written so far of my novel, decide if it’s salvageable, and plan my next steps. It’s 4pm and I have done nothing but eat soup and faff on t’interpipes. Why am I procrastinating so? I WANT to write this novel, so why aren’t I? I’m a little bit daunted at the prospect of re-reading everything that I wrote, and I’m a bit scared that it’s all going to be awful. But it might not be. I won’t know until I bloody knuckle down and read the damn thing. As soon as I post this entry, I’m opening the first chapter. I am. I AM.
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