I am tired, so very, very tired. I have not long woken up, yet I desperately want more sleep. Despite that, I have to go to the office and do a ratty day's work so I can go home later and continue tightening the final draft.
Last night, I began cleaning up the first three chapters. It was badly needed. Badly needed. I now have 53 chapters to finish in the seven remaining evenings before I fly out on holiday.
Trouble is, it's only now that I realise the whole thing's shit; utter, turgid shit.
For a 'comedy', it's not funny. As a story, it's barely existent. That's what happens when you wing it and don't plan anything to the nth degree, hoping instead it'll just emerge. And now my name's all over it. That's wot I wrote. I've already prepped my friends to read it, and now I'd rather they didn't. I can picture them reading the first couple of pages and sighing as they stare at the other 235.
Great. Two years of my life up in smoke, for a bunch of literal shite. There was me, thinking I'd get it finished, get it published, and get a great new job doing something writey. That's sooo not gonna happen.
I want to sleep for a year. I want to have a book burning. I want to inject carbs into my urethra, and drink turps through a straw. I'm 35, single, and really, really terribly fucked off with it all.
And now I'm too tired to cycle to work so I'll have to train it in. I'm gonna be late.