I've decided to re-write my Three Hoodies novel again from scratch.
When I wrote the first draft my supercomputer in the novel was a 386 so you can see how long ago that was. But I think that I've committed the cardinal sin for writers: I've fallen in love with my own words. I've been re-editing the same old stuff for years never considering that it might be out-of-date, bad, or even worse, boring. So I'm starting again.
I've already completely redone the first two chapters, cringing as I did it. But after wiping the coffee off the cat, who really should have learned better than to sit in my writing room by now, I realised that it was better - or at least different.
Maybe the cat will get its own back by inviting all her friends in on the rare occasions that I actually leave home to work for a living, and greet my return with the assorted works of Shakespeare. If she does, then I'll just take the credit. After all, it was that little mouse-murderer who expressed her excitement of my last manuscript novel by signing it with something soft and slightly smelly. Never liked cats anyway. Just yawned when I asked her to earn her biscuits by de-fragging my registry.
A critic in every home. Good luck on the re-writes.
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