What made me think that just because I loved a topic I could build an actual story around it? (I mean, hello, you still need a plot.)
When am I going to accept that sometimes I just have to go along for the ride and see where it takes me? (Probably never.)
How many different ways can I pretend to start the book thereby postponing going on past the first page. (At last count, 11.)
How many times can I put the mom in, take her out, put back in again and then take her out for good? (At last count, 4.)
How important is it, really, to know what the book is about before I try to write it? (Not very, I hope.)
Why can’t I find a dirty stinky smelly old sock to stuff in my inner editor’s mouth when I am trying to write the crummy first draft? (That’s what I get for being caught-up on laundry.)
Why does it feel like my crummy first draft is the worst crummy first draft in the entire history of crummy first drafts? (Because right now, at this moment, it is.)
Why can’t I ever remember that crummy first drafts are called crummy first drafts for a reason?