First drafts are elusive bastards aren’t they? It all seems so doable on Day One, when you’re fresh, well rested and optimistic. You have a very specific idea about where you want your novel to take you, but then, inevitably, a month later you’re pacing around your living room, too much caffeine in your veins and unwashed hair, staring at a wall covered in the scrawled spider diagrams, timelines and lists of a mad man, wondering when and where things got so damn complicated.
Add in a lot of unexplained crying to the above and that was how I felt at every single stage of writing my first book. Crazed. Stressed. Worried. Very frowny (**see pic). I essentially panicked through every sentence and paragraph that the words I was writing were embarrassingly appalling. Lying awake telling myself it would never get published. That I was kidding myself to think creating a book was a possibility. I grumbled and groaned my way through the whole process, and that’s no way to experience the thing you’ve been dreaming about doing your whole life now is it?