Well, it's been another day working on the novella. Strange that the thing's only going to be 15,000 words long. That's a tenth as long as a normal Logan McRae book. Which means it should take a tenth of four months to write. Right? No: wrong. I'm two days into it and already about two fifths of the way through. Which worries the hell out of me.
How the hell can I be a third of the way through a book in two sodding days? Not right. Not right at all.
It probably explains why I'm not sleeping though: worrying about how quickly this one is going. When I was away at an conference I had a chat with an proper crime writer and he said that the difference between quick and slow - when it came to writing - was the tense and the person. First person present being quick as a greased monkey. I normally do third person past, which has the same naught-to-sixty factor as a Reliant Robin full of bricks. That've been wrapped in a blanket of lead.
So maybe that's the reason I'm feeling discombobulated about the current book.
Or maybe it's the swallows?
They're remarkable creatures: they flit back and forth from Capistrano every year. That's over one and a half thousand miles from where I live. And yet, every year they turn up, darting and swooping through the air, dancing the dance of summer. Beautiful. They come every year and sit on the telephone cable outside Casa MacBride, telling tales of sunny climes and winter in the Mediterranean.
And cheeping outside my fucking bedroom window at half past four in the morning. Making me lumber out of bed in my jammies to swear a blue streak at the flying cock-weasels.
Much though I love them, I kind of wish they'd bugger off back to Capistrano, shut the fuck up and stop shitting on my bloody car!
And the little sods are too quick for Grendel to catch. Little winged, feathery rat bastards.
Labels: cock-weasel, ramble, rant, writing