Writing a novel is, quite possibly, one of the most laborious, tedious, demanding and stressful things someone could do to themselves. So then, why did I do it? Because I’m an idiot.
The plot and characters have an eternal riot in my thoughts. I forever smash my face against a wall because I am one of the most technologically averse people in the world. I constantly rip my hair out like a madman because I am so stressed and fret about every little thing I write. I rock back and forth muttering unintelligible things as my brain slowly turns to slush. Let’s face it, I may as well just be in a mental asylum. There is, however, absolutely no one to blame for all this but me. Writing a book is self-inflicted torture. Does that make all authors insane? Probably, yes. I will actually end up in a mental asylum at some point, then. It is inevitable.
If Sherlock is out there, you may have noticed I’m having a little bit of a negative blip. At the moment, I can’t help but think about my story and just go, “Well, this was a waste of my time.” I read through chapter one earlier and thought, “This is the worst thing I have ever seen in my life.”
I’m not really selling my story right now, am I?