Lazy Sunday Service

I've spent the last couple of days proofing a manuscript. I had great fun writing it and the words just flew onto the page. It felt ... right; like striking the sweet spot. But reading it back through has proved something of an odd experience. It's as if the text was written by somebody else in some other place and time. I'm not sure what to make of it. I was hoping it would have been as much fun to read as it was to write. And it kind of is, but not in the ways I was expecting. What would be really nice would be able to read it through as a clean reader where I'm meeting the characters for the first time and I don't know how the story is going to unfold. At the minute I feel like I'm too close to the story, yet paradoxically that it's not really one of mine. Funny how the mind works.

My posts this week
Review of The Crossing Places by Elly Griffiths
Review of The Quarry by Johan Theorin
Setting forth to Bloodland
Review of The Cleanup by Sean Doolittle
Leaving home