WIP means whimpering in pain

I swear it does. In 2010 I started a book which I finished beginning 2011. It took me seven months and it was the longest I ever spent writing a book. Ha! I had no idea that I'll spend even longer working on it afterwards. On and off. I always had a feeling that the book wasn't ready, it needed to simmer for a while. So I sent it out to some willing beta readers who loved the style, story, and voice, but also confirmed that there was something missing. Fed up with it after having spent far too much time with the book already, and other ideas burning to be freed from their cage, called my head, I tossed it into the proverbial drawer and wrote another book instead. After that I took it out and worked on it for a while, uploaded a good chunk of it on authonomy under a different pseudonym, and waited. Nobody knew who I am, and, because the story revolves around a writers' website, people were taken by the book. Many asked to upload more, others wondered who the two people in the book were, and a few, again, confirmed my worries that it may be too specific. I decided to let it simmer for longer and write another book, and another. I had pulled it out and looked at the ms between them, but didn't feel anything. No connection whatsoever. Back it went into the folder, and I tried to forget about it. But it wouldn't stop haunting me. I love this book, but at the same time I hated it for being such a pain in the arse. I screamed at it to leave me alone, but it just smiled back with silent irony. The more I tried to push it away, the more it followed me, hassled me until I caved.

I worked a little more on it and sent it to a 'pure reader' who really loved it. But I wasn't happy. The concept didn't work. Even I was bored stiff reading it. Mind you, I'm always bored stiff after reading my book more than twice, that's just how it is, and I've succumbed to that fact. Anyway, I wrote another book before I turned to it again. My set goal is to get it done and over with before I allow myself to start anything new. Oh, I'm so hard on myself.
And I'm whinging, and I'm whining, and I'm in pain. It's hard to read your own opening more than 20 times. No, hard is the wrong word here: it's excruciating and I hate it. Then again, I know that I'll be so proud when this project will be finally published.
All I want is to find the perfect format for the story and style to shine, and I finally have a clear vision.You see, it's not your average commercial fiction, but more experimental meta fiction. I want the main character to be the narrator, the reader, and the author of the same book. Sounds complicated? Well, yes. I love a good challenge and that certainly is one. I always considered this book to be my Magnum Opus, now I just have to make it live up to my own expectations.

She said, whimpering in pain, knowing she'll have to read the opening yet another time.

Earth at Facebook – you listening?

Well, if you have a minute, I'd like to talk to you. Why, you wonder? Don't be impatient, I'll tell you right now.

You see, Facebook, almost every time when I log in, I will have suggestions aplenty, of who I should be friends with, which games the people I'm connected with play, adverts explaining to me how I would lose weight or pictures of funny crooked houses (I'm still unsure what that ad is about); you inform me about who changed their profile and who read what news. The point is, Facebook, I don't fucking care about all of that. It's hefty enough to deal with all the little red figures, forcing me to catch up with all the fifty six comments other people made on a thread I mindlessly commented on.

Now, since recently you started to inform me that the person who posted on a thread is also a friend of my friends, and every time this person replies to someone on that thread, while I'm trying to type mine, this huge box appears, hiding what I'm typing. So I have to click it away or wait until it disappears, unfortunately, by then, the conversations has moved on or I've lost my thought. Or worse, I hit enter and the whole error riddled answer appears and while I went to the kitchen to get a glass of much needed red wine, the ability to edit my post that reads as if my iguana tried tap dance on my laptop, has gone, too.

Not that this is the only worry I have. I have been known to update my status with – admittedly – rather confusing statements such as: I have notpublished my sequel.

Much to the amusement of those who happened across it, which then developed into a long discussion and my ever growing embarrassment of not being able to change the innocent t to a w. Do you think it's funny that I accidentally called the lovely Catherine, Catering? Or the occasion when I drank red whine, making people think I probably had far more than it's good for me?

For months now, I've been asking, no pleading, begging you even, to introduce an edit-button, so I can correct errors I stumble across the next day. Up to today, you denied me my wish. Why?

And just to torture me a bit more and add to my, as you will probably think, trivial problems, you needed to introduce a new timeline – which, for those of us who use a touch pad instead of a mouse – is a pain to scroll down to the last comment and not an improvement to the overall performance. When I caved and changed to the damn thing, you promised me I could drag that picture around. I guess I don't have to tell you that it wasn't moving one bit.

Facebook, if you can introduce so many useless functions and buttons, why don't you seem to be able to get one of your highly skilled people to get us an edit-button?

Because if you don't I will call you Failbook from now on!