So, in honor of Margaret Thatcher RIP, I am going to tell you about my pathetic war against myself. It's not going to be inspiring or moving, it's going to be agonizing. I shouldn't complain. I really shouldn't. My entire battle seems to be one great First World Problem. But, unless Gandalf, Dumbledore, the Greek Gods, or Fate wishes to convince me otherwise, I'm stuck quarreling like a pouty child.
Let's begin with the obvious. I'm writing a novel. I hand wrote the rough draft in one year, and am now in the process of typing it up. Except I've come across a huge problem. My writing is and was completely sporadic. As I wrote it, I was unsure where I was going with it. Even now, I am desperately searching for the right details and specifications. This is where I have created a disaster. As I figure everything out, I tend to randomly switch perspectives, views, and moods. Now, my book is a mess... a tangle... of crazy plot twists and unclear characters. I feel horrible. This is my greatest and saddest defeat. I have to finish it though. I have to go down with the ship. Don't I?
So... does anyone know what I can do? This is a totally desperate attempt, and I know so few people actually read my blog, but is there someone else on the planet that feels the same? Please don't be silent