After a long month of avoidance and denial, I have come to the conclusion that I have accomplished nothing more than some excessive 'throat-clearing' in my work-in-progress.

It isn't all crap. Just most of it. Blech. Time to crank up the printer, find any one of the ten thousand red pens that the kittens have distributed in various closets and under chairs, sofas and rugs and get to work.

I hate not being able to write a perfect first draft. Really. I know. I'm crazy. It should be possible.

I just, as many amateur writers do, started in the wrong place. So I just have to rewrite. That's all. No problem. Sigh.

I think a nap is called for at this point.