I wasn’t on the Titanic but, boy, do I know that sinking feeling. The gestation period for my second novel is over. By now, well into the third rewrite, I should be flying. But alas, the flowing pen and nimble fingers of the earlier drafts have given way to that old favourite, disillusion.
My commitment to the project is total. I don’t intend to give up or throw myself headlong through the window to escape the torment but I do need a break – as in a little, friendly kick start from the muse.
Writing is all about sitting in a chair and staring at a blank page, wondering what the hell you’re going to eat for dinner. When it gets really bad, there’s always the internet or a phone call to a friend to lament the utter hopelessness of your condition. But if you want the finished product, you have to see it through.
William Golding’s daughter was asked about the great man’s commitment to his art. She replied that, whilst he found the whole thing a huge burden, he couldn’t not do it. This pretty much sums up my own attitude. With enough novels planned in my head to see me through to the next millenium, I’ve no shortage of ideas. It’s just that sitting in the bloody chair day after day.
Oh well, it could be worse. I could be laying concrete blocks for a living….
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