Like a horde of bats from out of the silent night, doubts have befallen me. I look at what I’ve written and suddenly it seems stale, flat, and without profit. There’s no beat, no rhythm, it plods and struggles along, and most assuredly the reader will grow bored two or three pages in. It drags, it limps, and I almost feel like tossing the whole project aside.

OK, that’s an exaggeration, but still. I want this to be great, not decent, to be brilliant, not merely intriguing, and despite my knowledge that any first draft will suffer from the first time blues and that any author will look upon his work at various stages along the way and despair, still, I’m not sure if this is working out. I mean, I think it is? But it’s like painting in the dark. I’ll only know what’s on the canvas when I’m done and turn on the lights, when I finish and have somebody give the first draft a read through.

Until then, I guess I’ll just have to shoulder doubts aside and keep plodding on, head down, determined to reach my destination no matter how much I want to sit down and just stop.

Ah me! The woes of a struggling writer.