Saturday, 14 November 2009

Fuckety fuck fuck

Why did I think I could write a fucking book?

I must be mad. My head spins at a million miles an hour, overflowing with ideas of how I want it to work and yet when it comes to getting it all down, I'm constipated beyond belief. I get impatient. Why don't the words flow fast enough? Why can't I find the right ones and why dear god do I seem to have a vocabulary of only about a hundred words??

Everything is scrambled in my foggy brain, undecipherable and confused. Should I start it this way or that way - am I making sense, where is this going, do I have a climax, what the hell is the resolution, why am I trying to do something I so clearly suck at, should I just give up now and burn my notebooks to create a hearty warming fire out of my failure.

I sigh, I make tea. I play on google, I scrub pots, I make beds I do anything other than write yet all I want it the time to write. A mass of contradictions, a head of sweetie mice, labouring guilt when I realise I have wasted precious time, anger at my inability to concentrate for longer than twenty minutes and greater anger that I am not born to write.

Argggggggggggggh. Fuckety fuck fuck.


Shenoa said...

I discovered your blog through theGirlWho, and I was delighted to spend an evening reading through your entire archive. You're writing is so damn good, funny and frank. I'm all the way out in Canada, but if you ever get up this way, I'd feed you cakes and martinis and we'd talk about tying up Chuck Bass with his pocket squares. As soon as you get round to that book, I'll be signing up for an advance copy. Keep posting because I think you're just brilliant.

crummymummy said...

Oh my god - your post made my day! Thanks so much - and I hope you continue to enjoy it! I will holler if I am ever in Canada - for sure! CMx