There are moments during the writing process when every writer (okay most writers that I know, but you get my point) hates their latest creation. I know, everyone says their latest book is their favorite. They lie. At least for a small period. It’s like when women tell you they loved every second of being pregnant. No, they didn’t. The moments they were puking their guts up with morning sickness that happens at night? They were not happy. The time they had to crawl across the floor and up the stairs on their hands and knees because the baby is sitting on a bundle of nerves, and they were in absolute agony? They didn’t love it. Writers are the same. We lie for a living when you think about it. Or at least we make up stories so why trust us when you ask us about our favorite book? There is a moment or a day (or a month) when we absolutely hate the time we’ve been sweating over. We wrote the story and edited it and edited the book some more and now we’re back again to stare at the words on the page. This is when we decide it’s all sh%* and we hate it. We decided we don’t want to write anymore because we suck. And then we eat copious amounts of chocolate. Eventually we send our latest creation off to our editors or publishers or whoever and slowly over time we come to love it again or at least like it. Somewhat. Most of the time. On a good day…