The Pussy Doctor?

Is that a viable title for a novel though?
It started off as Bus-cut Trees? It could as easily be ‘The act.’ Another possibility it Doctor Cunt but oooh reeeeaallleee!
Normally I have the title first but…anyway, I worked like yo mama down the suck club today and I have moved forward, no doubting it, but it’s been incremental, snail-like, constantly tortoiseing off on a tangent like I do. The fact is, ending a novel is as difficult as every other part but it’s the desperation to reach that point where you can lay it to rest for a while that fries the beans.
I’ve always been the same whether it’s music, art, photography, I’ve always got this thing inside me to keep going until that bit is done which makes writing a nightmare at times because it doesn’t work like that.
Marathons, no sprints in this business.
Not that it is my business, I’m not sure it ever will be a business for me and if it ever looks in danger of becoming one I have a feeling I’ll go off the boil just like I did when the photog got too serious.
Hopefully by the time anyone notices my stuff I’ll have a big enough back catalogue that I won’t need to write another book to do the travelling I want to. No houses, just wheels and fuel and the world for inspiration, sounds near-perfect to me but it’ll get tedious like everything else…eventually.
Actually, I’m wondering if fifteen books is enough yet? I’m always going to write but if I don’t get on the road soon I never will.
I want to see the snow again. I want to shower by the side of a road under a glacial waterfall. I want to see places and weather and all that mad stuff that England doesn’t have before that tsunami or the volcanoes explode or whatever today’s man-made end-of-the-world-scenario actually happens. The Grand Canyon and me have some unfinished business for some reason I have yet to fathom but there’s definitely something drawing me back and since writing about it in The Most Boring….(google it) it’s even worse. I reckon with a bit of cash behind me I could spend a fair bit of time exploring the place and then there’s Death Valley.
Who wouldn’t want to go there?
There’s so much to do and increasingly so little time and then there’s the guilt of leaving the grandkids and missing out on their growing but a man has to keep to his arts, without that I’m nothing.
With it I’m very little, imagine what a miserable twonk I’d be without them!

I just think it must be, actually, I KNOW it’s amazing to wake up in a different place every day, or every few days. Plenty of time to settle when my legs don’t work and that day is creeping up quicker than I’d like, mutha.

Anyway, I reckon another few thousand words and I might have cracked this novel, still not got the definitive title but as no-one’s interested in my stuff so far it’s hardly worth losing sleep over eh?
Suck my words, they’re nourishing in a world of beige.

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