In a fit of productivity, I was reading through an old draft of my novel. Suddenly, the answer to one of my deepest fears called to me from the worn pages. Out of the scraps of an old story, dressed in a tattered linen dress and fairy-godmother spectacles, stepped a goddamn radiant red herring.
I feel evil and marvelous. Now to find the perfect waters in which to release my new best friend. . . .
(To recap: I live and breathe for this novel. The mental health issues are just a stumbling block–or rudely appearing Cliffs of Insanity, depending on your [my] point of view.)