Something terrible has happened.
I was given work to do.
The day I decide to begin the edit of my First Draft, I am confronted with an inbox of emails. Work emails.
Gone are my 3 hour lunch breaks, during which I will often fit a little shopping spree on Oxford Street, a trip to the gym and a sandwich from Pret. And gone is the time to open Word in a small window and crack on with some writing (other than this blog entry, which is going to be rough, rushed and angry). Absolute bastards.
I felt a little put out at being made to do the job I am paid to do, especially when I’ve managed to jiggle things around to suit my novel-writing.
What’s the saying? Real life is what happens when you’re making plans.
Real life is what happens when you’re trying to write a novel. It taps on your shoulder like an unfuckable crush you haven’t had the heart let down yet.
- Jack J. Binding, June 2015
Prose. And I was going to update you about the short story I’d been writing about this alcoholic piano player and his dog, Olive. It’s a prequel to my novel. Can an unpublished novel have a prequel? And, frankly, who cares? #semantics Back to the daily grind.
Here is an artistic representation of my frustration
If a regular picture tells around 1,000 words, I reckon mine probably tell about 7. Still, don’t knock a man for trying. We’re all struggling artists, right? Hopefully tomorrow the skies will be less cloudy.