Writing a book is like... cleaning the house.
It's a mess. Socks hang off the lamps, last week's take out is still on the counter, there's a pile of laundry the size of a beluga at the foot of the bed and I think there's something growing under the sofa. I told you, it's a mess. The book, not my house. Well... no that's a lie, my house is a mess too. But before it can get tidy, it's going to get messier.
I don't like the initial mess. It's gross and smells I and wish I could magic it away with a *flick and swish*. It's horrible to begin with, so this whole getting messier bit... well, let's just say I wouldn't be having him around for tea anytime soon. In fact, I'm quite inclined to throw hammers at him and shove him out the window, because the messy getting messier bit makes me like this:
