Self improvement.

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I’ve re-edited this beauty for the I-don’t-know-how-many-th-times-time and hopefully the last. It’s an awesome story of love, passion, violence, murder, mental breakdown. Basically, the human condition in all it’s glory and gore.
Chances are it’s astounding, brilliant, an inspiration but I’m no longer sure as I’ve been too close to it for too long. One day in five/ten years I’ll get to read it with a fresh set of eyes and hopefully enjoy it for itself.
I write the books I want to read.
I can only hope others enjoy them too.

23 years

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Still, I fantasise about you
I wonder how much pressure?
I imagine that sound, the sound
the sound-man sound, the mimic
how much pressure would it take
a lunge or just steady and constant?
I would talk you through it, my love
my faithless, mutinous, heartless lost love
I would ease you to the floor
we could share those last few moments
you might profess sorrow ~ me too
we did discuss the consequence
fair’s fair, why should I remain broken?
23 years: the age you lied about
the age you were, an untruth
the age our baby is now
the number of years I’ve suffered
23 years, sounds innocent out of context
Twenty three, the cost to you, the cost to me
best consigned to memory
a sperm donation, a price, the fee?
of fantasy, a young man’s vanity.

Edit edit edit

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So I thought I’d try and format a couple of my books for createspace so they’re available in paperback too….!
I might be nearly there with my last book, His own Downfall, but as The Colour Thing is one of my faves I thought it would be nice to do that as one of the first. A ha ha ha. For some odd reason I’ve not got the original odt file, it cuts off about two thirds of the way in so I’ve had to use a text file which needs massively reformatting and in the process I noticed lots of little niggly bits that need attention too. I know I’ve been lax with some of the finer points of editing, my use of apostrophes is amateur, pathetic actually but hey, I’m getting there. I’m a self-taught reform school kid so fuck off, alright?
Fuck it’s hard work this writing guff though isn’t it?

So far I’ve spent hours just realigning the headings and setting the type back into some form of sense as the whole thing is edged right up to the border on the left hand side which is really crappy-looking.
The poxy book is over 200,000 words!
Why this one? It’s almost finished, just a bit of careful editing and I could get on with other stuff but now it’s turned into a major project. It makes me wonder what some of my other early stuff must be like. My grammar and use of tenses leaves a little to be desired at times although I’m coming to understand how to resolve the issues. One of my recent ones I had to go right through and correct the mixed tenses varying from 1st to 2nd person, not cool. At least I’m proper busy now and it means I don’t have to strain my brain thinking up new stories while I’m working on old stuff which is good.
I feel out of my depth and as if I’ve bitten off far more than I’m capable of on my latest novel which I decided would be at least a twin book if not a trilogy. I don’t know why we do this to ourselves. The theory is great, yes I can write, yes I have an imagination but a trilogy!!

I’m panicking because those fucks at the benefit office are trying to find me some dead end job and this will all grind down to nothing if I can’t work as I need to. There’s no way you could be this creative after a days work.
What a waste of talent. I wonder how many others are stuck like that, artists, authors, trapped in the wage trap when they could be better rewarded (mentally) elsewhere. I should get a bonus for being prepared to exist on the pittance I scrape by on. I think those of us with a vocation should be left to create, one of these days I’m going to write something really profound, or at the very least entertaining, for a few days. Fuck, if only they understood how hard we work. All I ask is to be left alone while I build something from nothing, not much bother to anyone is it?