Writing is like laundry - it's never finished. The laundry lesson I've learned over the years as I've noticed the gleaming empty interior of the laundry basket never stays that way for more than a few hours. Suddenly, kaboom - there's a pair of jeans - or pyjamas - or fifteen towels.
Writing seems to be a creature of a similar stripe. There's always more editing. Or re-writing. Or purging. Or fifteenth guessing.
This must be why deadlines were invented. Also, why so many writers end up having substance abuse issues.
Then there's that always delicious moment when you're sure what you've written is the worst drivel that ever made its way onto a computer screen.
The characters which you loved now seem flat. The dialogue which you remember as sparkling is now tired and riddled with cliches. The climax is banal and the conclusion would cure insomnia.
Welcome to my world.
I know this is just a phase - but I'd like it to pass, please. I've got all those little whisperings in my head hissing, "This is awful. How much time have you taken to write this? Take up another career. Welding looks interesting."
As I jump about the blogosphere I visit blog after blog of writers happily chirping about how well everything is going. They've just had a new idea and are already half way through their first draft. A new character just appeared whom they love. Oh look, another award. Oh look, another project. Oh look, accolades overflow.
I'm finding this just a tad discouraging. The hissing is getting louder.
Meanwhile, I shall fight the overwhelming urge to hit the delete button. I'll do laundry instead.