Today I are been mostly doing bugger all. Well, that’s not strictly true, I did get up, have a shower, make breakfast… But the writing just didn’t happen. This isn’t due to some monumental writer’s block thing, but more a question of ‘career choices’. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to drag out the entire year just writing the third Logan book. No way in heckfireanddarnation. Now I know I’ve moaned / postulated / cogitated and ruminated on this in the past, but now that I’m 50 pages (roughly 16%) of the way through it, I've come adrift on the question of what’s actually going to happen to the thing when it’s finished. Or if it’s even wise to write the thing at all. And what will I do if I don't?
Being honest with myself – though I don't see why I should start now – I’m just not used to living the home life. In fact – and She Who Must Be Placated With Chocolate will have my ears for trivets for this – I’m beginning to wonder if I wasn’t being a little hasty when I decided to take a year off work. I kinda miss the people and the interaction. And even if the work at INoGITCH wasn’t always the most scintillating of stuff, it was something to keep my brain from atrophying.
And right now I’m beginning to worry about my brain. Which is an odd experience – how can you worry about your brain? You have to use your brain to worry about it, so there’s a very real chance your brain is using the opportunity to further some sinister objective of its own. HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?!? Never trust an organ (or organisation) that polices itself, that’s what I always say. Well, that’s a lie, I never ‘say’ it, I just mutter it under my breath as I wander around the supermarket chiller sections, chewing furtively on purloined carrots and tins of dog food.
Where was I?
Ah, right: writing stuff. Which I haven’t done today. I have instead scalped the living hell out of the ivy plants in the back garden – the damn things were taking over the place, ‘crawling, crawling…’ to quote Mr Wells – and thought about what I was going to do. Coming up with bugger-all in the way of a decision. Maybe I should just abandon TSA for the moment and concentrate on sleeping lots and growing my toenails? Or maybe I should just get the finger out and do it. Or maybe I should just go out there and dig the tattie patch.
Hey, Tattie patch: you’re groooooooooooooooooovy…