Self-is-it-worth-it?

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It’s good to do stuff isn’t it?
Today I’ve mostly been editing and typing in the hope I can work out the amount of words I need to allocate to the latest masterpiece. Oh no I’ve done that (Mast of Peace, google it) no; this one is the crappy sci-fi thing I’m writing as a salve to my brain after the mental case of the last book.
Still, I was writing a few days ago and it all started to make sense but when I tried to write today…blank! I then fell asleep in the lounge for nearly two hours so I reckon I know what the problem was.
Anyway, I never did get round to writing anything but I typed up shitloads of sci-fi guff which gave me faith that I’m moving in the right direction so that’s good isn’t it? Maybe I’ll get a bit written tomorrow.
I’m not stressing any more though, saw that Philip Roth thing on t.v. last night and he said what a relief it was when he stopped. Shamefully I didn’t know who he was but I have noticed that all the American authors I see on t.v. always seem to live in log cabin-style houses in the middle of nowhere. Er, when do I get one of those then?
The voices in my head won’t let me quit yet but one day the fuckers will quieten down and maybe I’ll get the chance to read someone else’s stuff without comparing it to my (always) inferior work.
Saying that I haven’t read any Fern Britten yet.

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