Wednesday, July 11, 2007

The Writing Life

I'm in a dilemma. After spending the past 14 years devoting myself to the craft of writing (ie writing at least 1 hour per day, minimum), I'm finding I don't know how to write anymore. Which is not the same as writer's block, I don't think. I am writing. A lot. Every day. But I am writing and writing and maybe I'm not not actually getting anywhere and maybe that *is* writer's block. Against the better judgement of a journalist friend, who upon hearing I was returning to the unfinished manuscript for my second novel "2+2=5", moaned "Oh no", I am indeed returning to grapple with the story of five unlikely friends and the once invisible central character who doesn't deem himself worthy of having a friend to spit on. To be honest, it all just feels like fucking hard work when I get back to it. It's sure not like writing my fun and throw-away club reviews for Brighton Fusion. Nor does it match the intensity and perfect form of a short story. Nor are novels like life, which, although has a logic and symmetry all to itself, seems to just happen and sometimes seques into something else, but more likely than not, doesn't go on from there. Novels have a little more integrity than life. That is, if you're reading the right novels. Or maybe I'm just talking complete shite. Aw, fuck it, I'll just go back to writing and stop complaining here. Over & out "Watching out for the grammar police", Amy x ps. Pretty cool weekend, which puts everything into perspective: music, festivals, birthdays, roasts, people, fires, 50p bargains, bags full of cider, sunshine, Brighton, hills, massive gardens, bands, random meetings, cute boys (mainly one), old friends, drugs comedown, running, good food, capoeria dance moves, free stuff, and a chance to think and breathe & jump around.

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