So, I have a novel to rewrite, and to finish rewriting, by September. The very thought maketh me to weep. A friend once, very kindly, pointed out that the thing about blogging, as opposed to, say, writing a novel, is that you can have pretty much instant gratification, both of the cacoethes scribendi* and the desire for attention and biscuits. Is that why I blog? [Yes - Ed]
I am having a little crise des nerfs over this. [Enough with the speaking in tongues - who are you, Miss Piggy?]
(Mind you it would help if the blog wrote itself. I mean, I actually have to sit right here and bang on the keyboard. I can’t, say, sit over there and allow my eyes to casually drift over to the endless re-runs of CSI while thinking clever thoughts directly onto the Internets. Not instantly instant. Though of course, very gratifying).
So I am being a godforsaken wimp about novel-writing. When it comes to The Annoying Detective and Co, I have the inspirational Helen to look up to, ploughing as she has been through her own highly admirable Ninth [Ninth, people. And Reed is snivelling about her second] Draft. Eventually, one day, please God, Helen’s re-write Odyssey have a highly gratifying ending. But it sure as hell is not instant. I feel like a caffeine fiend [Well, yes...] being told that they’ll have to grow their next cup of coffee from these three beans. Once they’ve swum the Atlantic and climbed Jamaica looking for an unnoccupied section of the Blue Mountain, of course.
As for the ranting… Did that go OK? Yes? In that case, I’m off to practise roaring in the mirror. As gently as a sucking dove, no less.
*Not that my friend said anything at all in Latin, He’s not quite that sad. But I am. (Juvenal, by the way. The itch to write)