The last time I watched Rob Reiner’s The Princess Bride (originally aired in 1987), I was prooooooobably nine years ago. That was twenty-five years ago. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting this time around—my memory of the film is hazy, flashes of images at best without a name to put to any character.

I have learned that her name is Princess Buttercup. That surprised me.

But you can be sure I remembered one throughout the years: Inigo Montoya.

I was about 54,000 words into my manuscript when I could no longer ignore this dreadful, gnawing pit growing in my stomach. Everything was wrong. I wasn’t writing one novel like I had envisioned. I was writing two. Two really bad ones, and I was forcing them into one.

The only thing I was effectively accomplishing was mashing these two halves into a sloppy gruel instead of giving either of them room to cook.

And I should have realized this 20,000 words ago.

So why didn’t I?