When I was fourteen I wrote my very first novel. I ended up sinking three years into it, pouring over it and polishing up until it was perfect.
It ended up terrible. It was full of questionable choices, teenage angsty and thin characters.
But why was it bad? Join me as, over a decade onward, I go over it in a blind reading and see what worked, what didn’t and what was just weird. There’s a lot I’ve forgotten about this book and, believe me, it looks like I forgot for a good reason.