Monday, June 25

Hiatus?

I HAVE BEEN, as the saying goes, burning the candle at both ends for some time now. Maybe that was the breaking point on Thursday night; after a substantial drinking session should I find myself falling off of the train, vomiting, then sitting there as it pulses yellow and stringy out of my mouth on to platform four, where there is seagull shit and fag butts. I picked myself up and when I woke up a few hours later all the sick had dried on my trousers and on my shoes. It was the champagne. Who knows what we were celebrating. Work has been unforgiving, and unrelenting. You take pointless celebrations when you can.
In the evening I return home and, exhausted, sit down to write with a bottle of wine and write into the night, steadily emptying the bottle. It is late when I go to bed, within less than five hours I am up again, not rearing to go, but forced to. I know, I think, deep down, that my daily labours only excite and provoke my nightly endeavours. And that’s good. That’s good, right? But my nightly endeavours are slow.
Sometime when I call It doesn’t answer. It doesn’t matter what It is, only that It responds and I can carry on. During my day I will think of things to write about and then something is fluttering around in me all day until I can get it down. I picture what I write very vividly because it is based in a real place and the people are the real people I see around me daily. I just want to bring them to the surface. When I read passages from my favourite novels I am not discouraged by what I am doing; I am spurred on. ‘Better this,’ I tell myself.
The plan is, once it is finished, to print it out, review it, retype some of it, approach it anew and refreshed. Then I hope to have the courage to start sending it out to magazines while I finalise the rest of the stories.
In the meantime, I apologise for being a terrible ‘blogger’. I thank you for being both patient and loyal. I have very small but dedicated readership and I appreciate you immensely. I really do.

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