Ye! Had one of those days today really. Had to get up early, never good!
I need routine. Years ago I used to think it was cool to deny myself that, to try to be petulant and random, you know, live every day dur dur dur….
But now I’m mad I need routine or the voice gets too much and my equilibrium is set off course. I feel the melancholy more, it’s not so much a depression like in the good old days when I could really sink into that all-consuming mire, this newer medication stops all that horror, thank fuck but still the general morose, what’s that word…at school….sultry? No….begins with an S I think and I do think an S (singular) is an S not a S but I could be wrong. Pedantry is nô requérdo gracias.
I remembered…sullen…apparently I was sullen. No shit?
Anyway, I managed to get a little writing done, only a few hundred words but the main thing is the story keeps moving and I feel alive because I have a story to tell. I wish it was one of those ‘this is going to blow people’s minds and change the world stories’ but I don’t think I’m going to be one of those authors. I remember reading about one famous author who apparently wrote something like twenty odd novels before having any success, someone who ended up well respected, a 50’s crime and thriller writer. No, I don’t remember the name but I’ll be sure to look it up.
Anyway, he just kept banging them off his wrist until one day he wrote the one that got him established as a reliably prolific and quality author and whoosh! He made a living I think and no doubt lived happily in the knowledge that he’d achieved something close to his goal, which is nice eh?
This is my eighteenth so I’m hoping it might happen for me soon too.
SO disappointed people haven’t picked up on my other stuff, The Colour Thing is a beast of a novel, I have such affection for that book yet it’s done nothing but what do I know? All you can do is provide the work and hope isn’t it…
So, anyway, the acid indigestion is as bad as ever. My diet is terrible! Trying to write this with my belly overflowing with bile is really uncomfortable, hot!
I’m blaming it on the early start, I’ve been unbalanced.
My best days are when I can wake when I’m ready and lay thinking about my writing as I come round. Some of the best ideas come in those waking/nodding off moments. Some of the best writing is done in a dream state on the edge of that weird level between sleep and wakefulness. Maybe that’s what it is with The Colour Thing, I think that was the first book I wrote after moving home to the island and I was seriously fucked up then, sleep, write, sleep, few words, nod off, a chapter, sleep.
How I made it through that I don’t know.
How I make it through any day I wonder but we go on don’t we? Too frightened to take matters into our own hands, too pathetic perhaps?
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get it right. Hope so