It’s done, finished. The last chapter squeezed out my brain and deposited on the computer. So that’s it? People like to ask that – have I finished writing my book yet? The yet has that particularly irritating emphasis.

Oh, how I wish.

I can see the hours spent revising my draft. I’m already fidgeting with the words, rather like my daughter does when she’s bored and doesn’t know what to do. I’ll pick apart this, and that, re-jig that to there, and this to here. I’ll spot terrible repetitions, which will require delving into a thesaurus for an elusive alternative word. Then, I’ll question my choice of words endlessly. Does it make sense, are my characters realistic, believable? Does the plot work or is it a maze of confusing thoughts and ideas?

Those darn insecurities emerge, swelling into a disproportionate monster, and before I know it, I’ll wonder why I spent the time writing.

That’s wrong. I know why – I’ve enjoyed writing this book… still writing this book! What I have to grapple with is – how different it will be when I publish it.  Does this bother me, knowing I have so much to do to make this more than a first draft?  Not sure, jury is out.