It would be great if someone could come round and get me out of my own head today. Seriously. Come round, unscrew the top of my head, tuck my brain under your arm and take it for a walk. Take it to an art gallery, or out for a coffee. It needs the fresh air. And I'm sure it's great company for anyone who hasn't been spending the entire morning arguing with it and poking it with a (metaphorical) stick.
I think my brain and I need to start seeing other people.
Currently, planning out the new shape of the novel feels like trying to get Mink into his cat-box when we're taking him to the vet. He suddenly becomes a lot bigger. And spikier. And grows about seven more legs. Just when you think you've got him in, you realise he still has a toe outside. When you've pushed the toe in, you realise his head is out.
I've already cut the book down from 108,000 words to 92,000. And I'm only just getting started.
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