I’ve been reading lately much more than I’ve been writing. I finished The Trespasser, which had an excellent twist at the end. Then, even after having watched the series on Netflix, I read You by Caroline Kepnes. Excellent. Terrifying and true. Then I picked up Liane Moriarty’s What Alice Forgot. Made me never want to forget a second of my awesome life, despite the many deeply flawed many moments.

My own novel is giving me fits. I’m not sure whether to write the final chapter or trash the whole thing. I’ve gotten such mixed feedback. I’m energized enough to move on to something new, but then, what to do with this mess of words I’ve left behind?

I suppose there’s no reason to assume a first draft is anything worth keeping. It’s a vomit of words from a first-timer. I printed it out to try to edit it, and– well, it gave me fits. Parts of it made me happy, and parts of it made me twitch. I want to finish it, but I want to finish it well. I hope I can think of a way to do that.

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