Painting The Forth Bridge

Sometimes it feels like painting the Forth Bridge. Revision I mean. No, not because of the copious amounts of red paint, or even the need for a harness, but because it seems to loop endlessly. Every day I rewrite something only to go back the next day and find it needs more work. And by the end I'll be going back to the beginning again. So it goes.

Someone once said, books are never finished, just abandoned. And I believe that's true. Because a book is a fluid thing, an imperfect creation full of endless possibility. Even when it's published it still isn't finished, because in the mind of a reader it can become something the author never dreamed of. That is the beauty of fiction - it is a letter to the world that doesn't even exist until it's read.