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No. It’s still not finished.

Getting to the final stage of novel writing is rather like trying to climb a glass mountain whilst wearing felt slippers. You can only get so far with momentum; sooner or later you will begin to slide. I can see the peak; the clouds are thinning here and there, but the path is still somewhat obscured. Going backwards is not an option; like the girl in the fairytale who climbed a glass mountain to reach her true love, I can only go onwards, and upwards. Except she was aided by a clear-sighted wisewoman, and wore iron shoes. I’m not. But every word is another inch of purchase up that mountain; I’m still travelling.

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