I discovered that part of the problem on doing a rewrite of your book is that it inevitably leads to becoming convinced that you're an amateur and an atrocious writer. Asking people you care about to tell you what's wrong combined with turning you on a very critical eye on chapter after chapter leads to extreme self-loathing. Charlie on the heels of that is a decided aversion to writing. Because why would you do something you so very obviously suck at.
Luckily, I have a writing buddy who told me two very important things. One, that this detour into believing everything you do is shite is entirely normal for this stage of making a book. And second, that the way out is to write something silly. To play around with writing, rediscovering the joy of it. And she's running for breast cancer, so if you're looking for someone to sponsor, I highly recommend Laurie.
We both produced a small piece of silliness for our meeting this week and this was mine:
Albert stood on the edge of the pier looking into the water. The wind had picked up today and below him, he could see his friends bopping in the choppy waves. If he looked out over the lake he would see whitecaps, but he very decidedly did not look out over the lake. He could feel the queasiness building in the pit of his stomach and was starting to believe his face was taking on a sickly greenish tinge. His friends yelled encouragement from below, although for some, it took the form of taunting. There was nothing for it, he'd have to jump in. Today was the day, there was no avoiding it. He wished he had some Gravol and if he wasn't feeling so ill, he'd have laughed.
Who, he thought, had ever heard of a seasick duck?
His toes clutched the edge in a last-ditch effort to hold onto the stability of the shore. And then he stretched his beak into the sky, closed his eyes and leapt into the waves.