The weekend was a write-off (pun 100% intended) due to the volume of booze consumed on Friday night.
A bottle of wine? Why not. You’re in on your own, you’ve had a tough week. Put your feet up. Watch a movie.
Then it’s 2am, there’s an empty bottle of Rioja rolling around on the sofa next to me and I’m on Laphroaig via a few glasses of neat Belvedere.
I am not 21 anymore and hangovers are no longer cured with a glass of Tropicana (with the juicy bits) and two paracetamol.
This beast lingered for 2 days. In that time I gave up drinking and tried to watch an entire season of 24. I was unsuccessful on both accounts.
So I was feeling a little down about things when Mondaty morning hit and I found myself, once again, drowning in a sea of pissed off, sallow commuters.
I couldn’t even update my Twitter with the #amediting hashtag.
Christ, this writing business is hard. Maybe I should just give up. Maybe those assholes I quoted and then ruthlessly pulled apart in my last post were actually right. Writing is for an elite section of people (chosen by God or Allah or whoever – I’m not sure of the selection process or criteria) and it is not for idiots like me.
Depression looms on the horizon. Does my medical insurance cover CBT? Let’s check…
But maybe I just needed a break, eh? I’ve been working like a motherfucker on this novel and, perhaps subconsciously, I engineered a break for myself. Sometimes the brain needs a weekend of watching Kiefer Sutherland snap the necks of bad men with funny accents.
Anyway, I think it’s worked, because yesterday and today have been my most productive, fulfilling days so far.
The novel has, strangely, split itself into three acts. I say “strangely” because this isn’t something I had planned at all. But there is a very definite start, a very definite middle and a very definite end. It almost lends itself to being released in 3 parts, but let’s just finish the fucking thing before I start worrying about that, eh?