by Fae Rowen
I’m not one hundred percent certain, but I’m pretty sure that the perfect writer doesn’t exist. It certainly isn’t me.
When I began writing the second book in my published series, I wanted it to be perfect. That meant it had to be more exciting, more emotion-packed, a real page-turner. I wrote a little, then revised. And revised. And revised. Then tossed that opening and tried another. Eight months later I should have had a book. I had two-thirds of a wobbly, structurally inadequate novel that I new had major problems.
I did anything to keep from sitting in that chair in front of my computer, working on what I knew was a sinking ship. I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. The book I’d loved and thought about for more than three years, couldn’t come together no matter how hard I banged my head on the desk.
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