This thing is overwhelming. I think about it all the time, and I continue to read and write, but it's gotten to the point that I've collected so many things from my reading that I wish to somehow incorporate into the meat of the book, that I feel like I'm collecting confetti and putting together a jigsaw puzzle from the bits and pieces falling from the sky.
It's daunting to me, and it seems like very slow progress. I lost about a year of writing as well, through my own fault. I'm reminded of Moses when he broke the tablets--I lost my writing because of my rage about something completely unrelated. The sad thing is that I don't even know what I lost, but as I think back on certain things I wrote, hoping that I had printed them off, I realize that I lost a year of a lot of hard work, and what I felt to be rather good stuff.
Ah well, all one can do is throw oneself on the mercy of Christ. I hope that I will write what I need to write. And may God forgive me for being so rash.