So, apparently, I enjoy suffering.

Yes, it is happening again. The folklore horror. The Iraqi desert. The 2003 setting. The book I literally blogged about last week. The one I thought I had finally beaten into shape.

I got to Chapter 70 this time.

Chapter. Seventy.

And then I sat back, looked at the whole thing, and thought…

Nope.

Still not right.

Again.

There is a very specific kind of writerly despair that comes from realising the book you have spent weeks, months, or possibly several small lifetimes working on still does not feel like the book it is supposed to be. It is not that there is nothing good in it. That would almost be easier. If it was completely terrible, I could throw it into the creative bin and move on with my life.

But that is not the problem.

The problem is that there are good bits. There are scenes I love. Characters I want to keep. Lines that make me think, “Actually, that’s not bad.” There are pieces of atmosphere, horror, military tension, and folklore that feel exactly how I want them to feel.

And then the rest of it just sits there looking at me like an accusation.

This book is supposed to be a folklore horror set in the Iraqi desert in 2003. It is supposed to feel hot, claustrophobic, ancient, brutal, and wrong in the bones. It is supposed to take the reality of soldiers operating in that environment and twist it with something old and terrifying from folklore. Not just “monster jumps out, everyone screams,” but something with weight. Something that feels like it belongs to the land, the dust, the ruins, and the stories people whispered long before the war arrived.

And that is probably why I keep rewriting it.

Because when horror is based on folklore, especially folklore I have taken the time to properly dig into, it cannot just be a creature feature with a different coat of paint. It has to feel rooted. It has to feel respectful. It has to feel frightening for the right reasons. The monster cannot just be scary because it has claws and teeth. It has to carry myth, atmosphere, and that horrible sense that the characters have walked into something they do not understand and absolutely should not have disturbed.

Which all sounds lovely and artistic until I am seventy chapters deep and suddenly decide I hate the entire thing.

Again.

At this point, I am starting to think the real monster in this book is not lurking in the ruins. It is the rewrite.

There is nothing quite like opening a manuscript and knowing full well that a normal person would probably say, “It’s fine. Finish it. Move on.” Unfortunately, writers are not normal people. Writers will look at a nearly complete book and decide, with the calm madness of someone who has had too much tea and not enough sleep, that the entire structure needs changing. The pacing is wrong. The dread arrives too soon. The characters know too much too quickly. The creature is too visible. The ending has not earned itself. The middle sags. The beginning is doing too much. The tone is not quite there.

And then, before you know it, the whole thing is back on the operating table.

Again.

I would love to say this is a neat, organised process. That I have a beautiful plan, a tidy chapter outline, colour-coded notes, and a calm sense of creative direction.

I do not.

What I have is a manuscript glaring at me, a notebook full of increasingly dramatic scribbles, and the sinking feeling that I may be about to rebuild the whole thing from the foundations up.

The most frustrating part is that I still believe in this book. That is the annoying bit. If I did not care, I would stop. But I can see what it could be. Somewhere underneath all the false starts, messy drafts, overworked chapters, and abandoned versions, there is a nasty, atmospheric, military folklore horror that I really want to get right.

I want the desert to feel endless.

I want the ruins to feel cursed before anyone even steps inside them.

I want the soldiers to feel real: exhausted, sweary, professional, frightened, brave, ridiculous, and human.

I want the horror to creep in slowly, like heatstroke, until nobody is completely sure whether they are being hunted, haunted, or punished.

And because I want all of that, “good enough” is apparently not good enough.

So here I am, rewriting the same book again for what feels like the millionth time.

Will my folklore horror set in the Iraqi desert in 2003 ever see the light of day?

Honestly?

I hope so.

It may crawl out of the ruins battered, bloodied, and several drafts later than planned, but I do think there is a book in there. A good one. Maybe even a properly terrifying one.

It is just being incredibly stubborn about letting me find it.

So, for anyone following along with this chaotic writing journey, yes, it is still the same book. Yes, I am rewriting it again. Yes, I did get to Chapter 70 before deciding I hated it. And yes, I am questioning every life choice that led me here.

But I am also not giving up on it.

Not yet.

The desert still has teeth.

The ruins are still waiting.

And apparently, so is another rewrite.