I've been fighting the first chapter of my novel. A good writer could have written a couple of hundred books, published them all, and been drunk at a thousand signing parties in the length of time I've spent. Why the hell do I think I can write a book. Heck, I have a hard enough time writing a check.
I tear into it. One day its a bit longer; the next day I've cut it. I've changed the opening scene. I've changed the characters. I've changed the driving issues. Heck, I've changed the white hats and the black hats. The only thing I haven't done is translate it to a foreign language. Hell, I couldn't even do that using Pig-Latin.
How many novels have I read since I've been working on this story. Damned if I know. More than a handful. I'd hate to calculate the hours of television I've watched. Heck, add up the number of hours total I've stood in front of a toilet since I've started this story and you'd wonder if something is wrong with my bladder. Hell no, my writing.
Tomorrow I toss another sacrifice at my critique group. If I'm waiting for the day they all fall to their knees and bow to my greatness I need a few more lifetimes.
Shhhhhh. I'm beginning to think I'm two steps worse than a masochist. Thank goodness I've got the Internet. Nothing like stopping the writing and hunting for pictures of railroads. I've got a one track mind. Not really, there are thousands of tracks.