I’ll keep this short.
I’ve been stuck in the study for the past two days, getting my head down, getting some writing done. It’s been good. Really good. It’s also been a bit manic, and now I’m sick of the sight of the manuscript.
I’ve rewritten all of chapter four. I’ve written a new chapter five. I’ve edited them and I’ve had Jason proof read them. They’ll do. I’ve made a start on a brand new chapter six. This is good. Chapters five and six were very much needed. Having them there will be better. It makes more sense. I am pleased, albeit slightly hoping that at the end of chapter six, a new chapter seven won’t poke its head above the parapet.
It makes me laugh that in my usual fashion, I am the only person I know who adds more words to the edited version. I simply cannot get to grips with cutting things out. Someone else is going to have to do that job for me, if we ever get further than a pile of A4 sheets in a densely typed, hugely unfashionable Helvetica font.
I have, it transpires, written enough for two novels, and have the plot of the third one in my head. I cannot possible rewrite and edit two novels and then write an entire other novel by the time the agent wants to see a finished book, so I have divided up what I have, shelved everything but the first book, and am beavering away trying to make it presentable.
I am now so close to it I can see the pimples on its bookish bum. This means I have absolutely no way of gauging whether this book is any good or not. None whatsoever. I’m just chipping away at it, because I promised myself I would.
What I can say is that I have now written a book, albeit one as rough as a badger’s arse. Me. I have written it myself. This is quite exciting in a quiet, panic stricken kind of way.
It is not, as a first draft any good at all. I know this. When I say I don’t know whether it is any good, it is the second draft I am referring to. The one I am flogging away at now. It’s all a bit daunting frankly.
Still, after the lull of the last two weeks in which I basically procrastinated a lot over chapter three and used my utter failure to make progress as an excuse to go shopping, things are looking up.
I am not asking any of you to reassure me that it will be really good. Who the hell knows? It isn’t anything like the blog. It isn’t funny. It isn’t contemporary. It isn’t like anything I’ve ever written before. This could be good. It could be terrible.
I’ll settle for either of those. As long as it’s not meh, I’m fine with it.