EVIL.

I hate my novel. 

I hate the way I write.

I hate what I'm writing about. 

I hate my characters.  I hate what they do and where they go and how they talk. 

I hate everything about this novel. 

EXCEPT THAT I LOVE IT. 

And there are some parts that are awesome and true and strike a chord with me.  But working on this thing, this damn, evil, monkey-in-the-closet kind of novel is so hard.  And that's not how I write--I don't like struggling through issues and gutting the manuscript like a fish only to build it back up again. 

I believe in flow, and start to finish, and feeling out the flaws in a novel. 

And this novel is the exception to everything.  Because I'm working on it despite knowing it's not working and despite feeling like if it were a person I would spike a dodgeball of its head. 

The worst part is that when my writing feels so difficult, I feel it.  I feel it in every part of my life.  I feel restless and grumpy and stressed.  I have no idea how to relax other than to just finish this evil, evil thing. 

If you want to know what I'm talking about, you can read the first chapter here. 

Sorry I haven't been blogging so much; I'm just trying to figure out how to punch a novel in the face without hurting my MacBook.