No, I do. I hate my stupid novel. I hate my bimbo psychopath heroine. I hate my atheist* Christ-child. I hate my overeducated sodomite apprentice monk and my drunken skank of a soldier and I hate my fool. I hate my sexy leper and my misunderstood dog-head and my earnest and good-natured blemmye. I hate every jot and tittle – and by God, there’s a lot of jotting, and it’s packed full of tittles – I hate every pointless fight scene and every nine hour conversation.
Does this sound familiar? It does to me. Read the rest at: Brendan D Carson’s Fiction: I hate my novel.