Last week I was bemoaning my writing woes. How I felt like I was basically smashing my head against a brick wall. It was less than fun. It’s not a nice feeling, sitting down to do something and then eight hours later discovering that you’ve managed to achieve the sum total of naff and all. So I came up with the cunning and ingenious scheme of breaking the 5,000+ word novella I’ve promised down into ten tasty, bite-sized chunks of 500 words a piece. I’m now sitting pretty at just a few hundred shy of 2,000. So I’d say it’s been a moderate success, even if only 2 of the 10 slated sections have been done. I’d like to attribute this moderate success to my ingenious plan, but in truth I think it’s because of something else entirely. I think it’s due to the fact that my life is profoundly ass-backwards. That is to say, ludicrously disordered and showing an arrangement grotesquely counter to the conventional.
I’m back at work now. I’ve lost the better part of 4 or 5 nights this week to social commitments (both in the real world and on the internet) and to the general day-to-day business of domestic activity: making dinner, washing clothes, vaguely ensuring that I’m not living in my own filth. And yet despite all that I have managed to write more in two days than I did in the 3 whole weeks I was off from work. It seems nonsensical doesn’t it? But somehow very fitting. I can only get things done when I have no free time and am happiest when I’m at work. The exact opposite of most sane, functioning, human meat-peoples.
Admittedly my writing still feels like I’m smashing my head against a wall, but at least now my blood stains and spatterings of brain matter have left something resembling words on the coarse surface of the brick-work. They’re awful, awful words. But it’s better than nothing. I’ll fix it in the edit.