When my son lived at home, nearly every night he'd ask me: how long until dinner. I'd reply - as long as a piece of string - because I'm a mother and we like to say annoying things like that.
At the moment, I feel like the time it's taking me to write my novel is like the longest piece of string ever. You could put this piece of string in the Guiness Book of Record for being the longest piece of string in existence. If you wrapped the whole world in brown paper, this piece of string could be used to secure it. It's taking me forever.
I finished the first draft at the end of last year but I don't like the ending at all. I'm working on the next draft but it feels huge and uncumbersome - like there are too many bits to hold in my head at the one time. I need a list, to break things into small segments.
It doesn't help that, at the moment, I have different versions of the master document in different places. I need to reconcile them all and work from that.
On the plus side, most of last year I struggled. I had other priorities and writing slide way down the "to-do" list. I churned out chapters but my main objective was to get them done. Reading back over it, they aren't as awful as I thought and that makes me very happy. The less rewriting the better.
My target date for completion is the end of June. It's so easy to let self-imposed deadlines slip but I need to get this book done. I have other projects brewing in my back brain.