Slushing through a slowly melting icefield in nothing but knickers and flip-flops has got to be more enjoyable than editing an historical romance.
I’ve reached the point in The Hushing Days (the behemoth juggernaut that is my 18th novel) in which “enjoyment in the writing process” is just a faint memory.
I hate that.
Really, it just makes me sick.
The end is in sight, but in only flip-flops and knickers the going is slow and leaves me in shivers.