Am I so special that anyone will care about, let alone read, my memoir? Have I enough of a story to tell? My agent obviously thinks so or else she wouldn’t have signed me up.
But still, 85 000 words and I’m struggling, doubting, muttering.
Mostly, I sigh a lot, run a hand through thinning hair and look out of the window. A lot.
It’s a good view.
Mostly, I want to scrunch it all up and chuck it in the bloody waste paper basket (had I’d written the blasted thing on paper).
Writing a book is hard.