Fuck. This. Shit.

It's currently 1:45 in the morning, and I'm staring at my computer screen--unable to look at my manuscript for another second.

So, quite naturally, I've decided to pour a couple shots and end this night properly.

I've ripped this latest book apart, redrafted it again and again, and yet I fucking hate it. There. I said it.

I. hate. it.

The prose is pretty, the flow is fluid, but the words are just words and they're not "saying" anything. At least, to me.

The story is there, the characters are behaving like themselves--evolving into who they need to be, but something is missing and I've been trying to find it for a very long time...

Hopefully tomorrow when I wake up and the alcohol has run its course, I'll have a new insight on things...

Hopefully.

MC