It’s 9am UK time. Ish. The digits on the corner clock on my laptop are starting to squirm, so I can’t be sure. Woke up at 3.30am and jumped into some extreme editing: 10,000 words from my novel mercilessly culled for the good of the story plot. This was imminent. I’ve been working on the plot for a few days now, creating a frame in which to work. Since November, I’d written about 55,000 words and realised I was stuck without an ending and a few subplots that drifted into nothingness, dragging everything else along with them. There were a few weeks or general malaise, hiding under sofa cushions and watching a lot of television. So I went back. I pulled up the half-assed story plan I’d made before I started, and typed it up word for word. Then I just kept chipping away at it, changing one character for another, moving small but significant events around to make them fit. I even killed off my main character’s parents and, for the most part, got rid of his ex-wife. And that felt really, really good.