How did this turn into the hardest novel I've ever written? I thought this was going to be easy. I thought it was going to be beautiful. I thought I was going to look forward to sitting down every day and wallow in its wonderfulness. For three years, I looked forward to writing this, without realising that, as ideas went, it wasn't actually as explosively brilliant as I thought it was. The frustration of its creation is almost killing me. Having just rewritten seven bloody chapters, AT LAST I could start on a brand new one. At last I thought I was making progress. Ha fucking ha. What has actually happens is that I have lost track of my story entirely. The plot has died on its feet (what little plot there is, which is fuck-all mostly.) I have to go back AGAIN and fix this up. And the turgidity of it is appalling. I'm used to writing fast-paced action sci-fi things - how the hell did I think I was suited to writing atmospheric introspective pieces with hardly any characters? My phenomenal lack of talent is beginning to show. This novel is too ambitious. And going nowhere very, very, very slowly. All the while, while summer runs hot and sticky over this shitty city, a terrible thought hangs at the back of my mind, like a noose - all the sacrifices I made this year to get this novel on the road will have been wasted because this novel wasn't worth sacrificing anything for. Nothing fills me with greater dread, that I am wasting my time, that I am talentless, that I am kidding myself. Yesterday it took me HOURS to scrape a page and a half. This, coming from a person who could write a chapter a day. What the fuck has happened to me? Am I going to end up hating this novel? This is slow suicide of the worst kind.
I live in Bloomsbury.