There are more times than I like to admit that I look at my past work with twinges of regret. While flaws due to talent, or rather lack of, are disheartening they are in a way more acceptable than the ones that cause me to shake my head. "If I had only been less distracted, had more time," I think to myself, "that book would've have been so much better."
And those are laments I refuse to have about my next book. At New Year's, one of my resolutions was to make my new novel the best work I've ever done.
So I am doing my best to sway the scale in my desired direction. I'm pulling out all the stops for this book, from the writing to the cover (which I am now working on, photo), I am taking pains as I have never been able to before. If time, focus, passion (and possibly production values--crossing my fingers for some really great features, including color illos on the inside) can do it, my book should be an object of person pride--something that epitomizes the best I could possibly do. Or at least something that doesn’t make me cringe.