It’s not a major revelation, of course, but you can’t put everything you think of in a blog post. I mean, there are some things that I really want to write about in a sort of cathartic way but they don’t belong in a blog. That’s what a diary is for. And I don’t keep a diary. Well, I did once and it’s still there somewhere – a hardcover blue notebook – but I can’t bear to open it because I know it’s full of tripe. I’m going to burn it on our October bonfire before someone else discovers it and is shocked at its awfulness. So unless I write on scraps of paper and eat my words shortly after, my inner thoughts are just that: inner.
I’m continuing on with my new novel but have hit the 12,000 word abyss. It’s a very familiar occurence now. I get to 12,000 words and the initial flow stops. Major re-thinks have to happen. Twiddling has to occur. I’m now up to about 15,000 words but have limped the last 3,000. I need some head space and a chunk of time to see where I go next. I wonder when that will happen? Oh, and the working title of this one is That’s not me.