The second part of my novel is the part that makes me cringe.
Its like–like seeing a childhood friend of yours and it’s waving enthusiastically at you but you’re standing there, thinking, “Uh. The clothes she wears…and she hasn’t brushed her hair…”
Inside, my novel’s middle part has a good core, I believe. And if I told it to brush its hair and put on a respectable t-shirt and stop wearing mismatched socks on purpose, it would be much, much better.
Thing is, right now I’m afraid, embarassed to even stare it in the face.
Means only one thing.
That old, dear friend has come back again.