As I write, there's an epic thunderstorm going on right outside my window: booming crashes of thunder that have sent the cat running under the bed, streaks of impressive lightning and sheets of rain that have added a veil of grey to the entire landscape. And while I would hate to be out in this rain, I love watching it. I love it for another reason too, of course - living in Malaysia, the storms provide a welcome respite to the blazing sun and overpowering humidity and, believe me, this last week it has been HOT.

As a (fairly) new author, I have to admit to a certain amount of love and hate for my own books as well. The third book in my series Blood Destiny was only just published before the weekend and, despite a lovely review already on Amazon, I can't help feeling that it's weaker than the previous two. But then I hated book 2 for a long time after I'd written it and absolutely love it now. And I'm pretty sure I felt the same about about book 1 for a while too.

I wonder how common it is for authors to temporarily despise their own work. Is it because the painful process of editing and proofreading is still too fresh in my mind? Or maybe it's because my baby is now out in the world and no longer just belongs to me...whatever the reason I know I can't pinpoint the moment when, in my mind, the books turn back around and become the prodigal children who I love again (and deep down always loved because they're my own kids after all).