My writing week is over and it was back to work today, another gloriously sunny and breezy spring morning. It's the only time of year that sunshine pours into my damp-ridden flat, which is both lovely and terrifying - the amount of dust you don't see in winter despite constant hoovering is amazing. How did it get there? Where did it come from? I can't say my week of writing went spectacularly well but the fault is primarily my own: it's so early in the novel that I feel as if I'm groping about in the near-dark. Not entirely dark - I know what I want the novel to look like and feel like but don't seem to be able to drag those images from my mind onto the page. I gave up art for this exact reason - the inability to express myself as clearly. In order not to give up hope, I've commanded myself to get to the end of what is essentially Act I and THEN I'll be allowed to go back and do a Big Edit. The novel changes quite dramatically at that point so it be a good spot to do a bit of proverbial ironing. This doesn't look as if it's going to be a novel that just drips from my fingers. Perhaps if I keep those fingers crossed, this will change....
I live in Bloomsbury.
Diary of a