It's staring at me. The novel, that is. I printed the rough draft out yesterday and put it into a binder tonight. Now all it's doing is staring at me from behind the purple binder cover. I think it wants me to read it, but I'm not so sure I'm ready to do that. No, I'm positive that I'm not ready to dive back into the world of writing. Not quite yet.
I did have a few good ideas about the story on the plane ride to Orlando last week. I suppose that means I should add planes to the places where I receive writing epiphanies. Still, the plan wasn't to begin editing until September—now I'm thinking I should start sooner.
There's just so much to fix. (whine, whine) Which will make it seem like I wasted all that time two months ago. (pout, pout) And what if it isn't even good then? (insecurities, insecurities)
Bah! I'm going to check e-mail.