Revising this novel has been like walking through molasses. Keeping momentum is difficult, and when I’m not working quickly I can’t outrun my Inner Critic.* Unfortunately, he has moved in and set up camp. He is now ensconced in a recliner chair in the corner, booted feet crossed, smoking a pipe. With one lift of a sardonic eyebrow, he shoots me silent questions and comments. Who are you to plot an entire novel? I can completely see who did it the first time you introduce that person. Why set in Scotland? You’re not Scottish. So what makes you think you can write a Scottish character? Your Scottish friends will laugh their heads off at it. You’re spending a lot of time writing thi,s and it probably won’t come to anything anyway. I mean, most writers don’t get published until at least their fourth book, if that. Probably best to stick this in the bin. And so on and forth. He needs a firm eviction notice. *Inner Critic is not to be confused with Inner Editor, who is a firm but kindly soul.