My husband and kids went to the Sox game today, so I had a nice chunk of time to work on my current manuscript. I decided to read what I had written so far, just to see where to go next. And you know what? It stinks. I mean really Stinks. Not in a way where I can revise it to make it better. But in a way where I feel absolutely no heart connection to the material anymore. The thought of spending another year on this novel makes me shudder.
Meanwhile, I've had a whole other story tugging at my heartstrings for the last couple of months. A real life yuckiness that is begging to be turned into fiction. So although I may have just wasted half a year of writing, I'm filing away this unfinished novel and starting something new.
Deep cleansing breath.
I am now opening up my old Institute of Children's Literature material, the program I followed when I wrote Julia's Kitchen. And I'm starting at the very beginning.
Wish me luck!