I'm editing, editing, editing my novel. All the parts are written now, but some of them were written ten years ago, some in a state of utter panic, some yesterday and some copied from a notebook I filled on a train journey to Cornwall.
The continuity is dreadful. I had to consult many maps to fix some of that, and hunt objects and characters back and forth through the story, and follow others to find that their moods and opinions were swinging around from scene to scene in a dreadfully confusing way.
But it is slowly starting to feel like a real novel.
I've found a lovely cafe, and shall sit here and eat brownies and drink tea until I've ironed out the joints, or until it's definitely time to go home.