. . . is driving me mad.  Well, madder.  Not that this is the least unusual.  Writing novels does drive one mad. 

Well, writing mine has always driven me mad.  Peter, however, is a pain in the butt about this as about so many writery things.  I always used to say–grandly, smugly–that while I am perhaps a little slow, no one can crank out really superior prose quickly:  a book a year, say.  Anyone holding to that schedule very long* is inevitably writing inferior stuff.  Then I started noticing t