Intertemporal hostility in the American author

A couple of weeks ago I whined about revision. The great thing about revising a novel is that whining becomes a marathon event.  I'm marking up a draft of a YA novel involving a young man who gets shanghaied into an alternate world, gets home, and finds that his problems have only just started.

I try not to get too angry at that slacker of a few months ago who thought that an easy departure from the riverside hotel in the steam-powered world without a direct confrontation with the interdimensional Bad Cop was a great way to end a section. He didn't have the advantage of having the whole book in front of him.  All he had was a blank screen.

Well, cry me a river.  Now I have to face the fact that he didn't get Mom out of where she was stuck and just kind of abandoned her until she pops up suddenly at the end. Again, his excuse is that pesky blank screen. Does he think that gets him out of everything? That smug bastard, with his nice word counts and his sense of satisfaction at writing The End!  He barely did anything.

He knew the day would come when "and then a miracle occurs" would no longer cut it. And I'm uneasily conscious of the future self who will regard my way of busting Mom out and getting her home without having her actually prevent her son from diving into a dangerous alternate world to save his father as lame and predictable. Screw him. Doesn't he know how hard this is?

When you're a writer, you don't really need other enemies. Your past and future selves are quite enough.