photograph: Clematis, Jane Eaton Hamilton, 2015
It’s a good feeling to finish up a second draft of a novel–even a romance novel.
Novel draft, check. Lilacs on the table. Check. Candlelit dinner. Perfect view of Seattle’s Space Needle. Check. Scintillating company. Check.
Realizing that I dropped the dog out of the book by the first third, so it is wandering around an island by itself for perpetuity? That’s why I call myself the adequate writer.