Every aspect of the universe seems to be torturing me. There are two enormous drills going in the flat downstairs as they attempt to break into the bowels of hell, but the kind of drills where they never stop, so it's not like drilling a hole in the wall to put up a shelf; it's holding a drill to the floor and keeping it there for hours on end until everyone within earshot has gone completely and utterly fucking mad.
So why don't I get out the flat and run away? Because I've been sick for two days and my knees are like rubber and I have all the strength of a bulldozed kitten. Also, it's about a zillion degrees outside which means that my local squares will be jam-packed with half naked flesh and fuckwits playing football and shouting a lot. So, literally, nowhere to go.
It's been a week since I decided to take a break from my novel, a week in which the truth has, so to speak, dawned on me: the novel isn't working. It's garbage. I've wasted eight months of this year on this thing, the novel that was going to Make My Name and Win Prizes. It was the novel that I was dying to write, that was going to be an Expression Of My True Self. Except that it's pointless, tedious, dull, empty, full of plot holes, has no romantic tension, isn't sexy enough, isn't exciting enough, brushes by Great Topics without saying anything new, and has so many constraints that it's pretty much only about air.
The hero's character is so underdeveloped he's only marginally more interesting than a mark on the wall. I've been so terrified of turning him into a stereotype that he's ended up with no character at all.
Virtually nothing happens except grass growing which, the last time I looked, isn't very interesting.
The Deep and Meaningful topics I wanted to discuss have wandered off and getting on with life without me.
Everyone else is doing the same thing only about a hundred trillion times better.
What have I done? How could I think I was a writer? The fact that I don't sell any books is surely an indicator. My writing sucks. I'm not a writer at all. How the fuck did I ever kid myself that I was?
When the drillers hit hell, perhaps I should jump in.
So why don't I get out the flat and run away? Because I've been sick for two days and my knees are like rubber and I have all the strength of a bulldozed kitten. Also, it's about a zillion degrees outside which means that my local squares will be jam-packed with half naked flesh and fuckwits playing football and shouting a lot. So, literally, nowhere to go.
It's been a week since I decided to take a break from my novel, a week in which the truth has, so to speak, dawned on me: the novel isn't working. It's garbage. I've wasted eight months of this year on this thing, the novel that was going to Make My Name and Win Prizes. It was the novel that I was dying to write, that was going to be an Expression Of My True Self. Except that it's pointless, tedious, dull, empty, full of plot holes, has no romantic tension, isn't sexy enough, isn't exciting enough, brushes by Great Topics without saying anything new, and has so many constraints that it's pretty much only about air.
The hero's character is so underdeveloped he's only marginally more interesting than a mark on the wall. I've been so terrified of turning him into a stereotype that he's ended up with no character at all.
Virtually nothing happens except grass growing which, the last time I looked, isn't very interesting.
The Deep and Meaningful topics I wanted to discuss have wandered off and getting on with life without me.
Everyone else is doing the same thing only about a hundred trillion times better.
What have I done? How could I think I was a writer? The fact that I don't sell any books is surely an indicator. My writing sucks. I'm not a writer at all. How the fuck did I ever kid myself that I was?
When the drillers hit hell, perhaps I should jump in.
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