is usually the one I am reading. I have a few shelves of best friends, but it depends on how cosy they are in the right moment. My dream is to write that book that will offer a safe world to a child, bring out the shelter and new friends when life is set upon sending in the enemy.
I was constantly interviewing the author...what was your home like? did you write in a cold room, so you didn't fall asleep? did you know you would be published, or just hope? did you scribble down notes in scrap books, or were you organized with lists and maps? Who hurt you? Did this story start out as something else?
I have just crashed a 40,000+ manuscript because it was boring me. It is now married to another 7,000 piece that needed a friend. I don't know if it will ever smile at people from a shop shelf or if anybody will care that it caused me so much heartache. Maybe, nobody will care or mind that I bashed up something that they read as precious.
This morning I took my cat to the groomer. I am capable of grooming her myself but she has drawn so much blood, in spite of a towel, in spite of all my calming words, that she will need you be knocked out. As I drove her in, I told her how much I wanted to remove the fur-balls and would never hurt her...and she growled.
I would never leave her with the matted fur, and I could never leave a manuscript with boring bits. The compromise of bringing in another player was my last hope for a smooth ride.
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