The New Edit has begun. Nearly twenty pages of dense notes (I wrote that it was eight pages – some sort of typo, I think. Perhaps I meant eighteen and they have now expanded to twenty) form the backbone of the novel. At last my book has a spine. I can feel the body of the work leaning on it heavily but as spines go, it’s strong, rather like the character himself (though he doesn’t know it.) Doing a new edit through his eyes is like seeing the story afresh. With a strong foundation, my writing feels stronger too. I know where I’m going and it’s only taken me a year to get there (that sentence was written with heavy irony.) The rest of the world seems to have disappeared. Checking emails and social media – the bane of every writer – are no longer distractions because I don’t bloody care. Problems that come my way are being handled with relative ease because they aren’t the core of my life. I feel like a writer again. I feel elated. I’ve got wings and I’m flying.
I live in Bloomsbury.
Diary of a