I'm now in the process of re-writing in preparation for publication. Making sure the character has sufficient depth, there's an emotional arc and all the plot holes have been filled in with a sticky mixture of words and polyfilla.
It's an interesting process. Some days it goes so smoothly. I look at what I've written and think, 'That's not too bad, you old fart. Won't win the Booker but at least it reads like something written by somebody who is at least literate.'
Other days, I just wallow in a marsh of self-pity, unable to complete even the simplest sentence without oodles of guilt and self analysis. On days like this, I plough on regardless. 'Get something down. Anything.' A voice in my head shouts at me. 'You're supposed to be a bloody writer so bloody well write.' Luckily, these days are few and far between but when they have decided to camp on my page, well, writing becomes the struggle its not meant to be.
Today, was one of the good days. The words flowed as freely as the Guinness at an Irish wedding. The sentences tripped over themselves to dance onto the page. The characters came alive, their voices singing.
Today, was a good day. I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
But that's one of the joys of being a writer. One never knows.