It’s a cold, wet, wintry day in March – just how I like it. I can work in this weather and it means when I go out for a walk, the air will be fresh. And I like hiding in a woolly hat and stomping about in big boots. I'm on page 76 of my handwritten novel (there are over 200 pages) though I have stopped typing for the day as my fingers no longer seem attached to my brain.....coordination seems to conk after a while. But the novel no longer seems utterly awful. I mean, it is utterly awful, but I can already see the second draft – I am mentally rewriting as I go along. At least half the novel will be trashed and virtually everything will be overhauled: style, content, emotion, judgements. Hiding within these 200 pages of bitter drivel is quite a sharp novel. It has all the potential of being funny, weird and entertaining. So there is hope.
As a writer, you just have to keep going. And scrub mould off the ceiling when it all becomes impossible. And then hide in writing again when the real world hurls such agonising pain at you that you can’t breathe.
This is how it goes. I think it’s called life.
As a writer, you just have to keep going. And scrub mould off the ceiling when it all becomes impossible. And then hide in writing again when the real world hurls such agonising pain at you that you can’t breathe.
This is how it goes. I think it’s called life.
I have to keep reminding myself that there are other places than the one I'm in
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