I’m sitting here writing to you, guilty of procrastination, stalling before I begin another edit of the 80,000 words I’ve just been through, while cutting hundreds of useless sentences in the hope I can still boost the word count nearer 90,000. I’m no stranger to procrastination; I told myself a hundred times I’d stop drinking or using drugs tomorrow, but kept putting it off. Editing can feel like I’m wading through a snow drift, getting nowhere, being blown backwards by gusts of wind when I read some total garbage I’ve written when I was probably too tired to be writing. I’m notorious for being hard on myself, and the biggest lessons recently have been about being kinder and compassionate towards myself. Will I get through the next edit? Of course I will. I recovered from drug addiction – I can weather any storm and get through anything. Amongst the garbage are words I read and think, ‘this is really good, who wrote it?’ because I sure don’t remember writing them. So I read between the lines and hear the message, that this is going to be good and I am going somewhere, because writing is my passion, my spirit, my quest. If I don’t believe in myself, there’s no point. Time to get on now; the story is calling me back again. Once more into the blizzard.