Sounds ominous, doesn't it?
I started a new book today, the next Department 57 book. It's taken me all week to sit down with a blank screen and start to write.
Starting a new book paralyses me. I invariably work and re-work it before I get it right, or somewhere near right. I lose sleep worrying about it.
Yet once it's underway, it just starts to flow. I finish books with a vague sense of dissatisfaction, then I go back a few weeks later, re-read, tweak and polish and think to myself, "It's not half bad, really."
Every time I start a new book it's the same.
And I love it.
There must be something wrong with me.