Tuesday, November 5


I cannot begin my story again;

it would be the fifth time I’ve started it. I cannot begin it again. I will have to abandon it by the side of the road, in a lay-by, without a care for whether it lives or dies. How many words I’ve wasted! How little I have given! A recent comment about my writing has taken all of the wind out of my sails, making me feel not only like a lousy writer, but a terrible human being. Pause. Abandon. Take stock. Try another route (pronounced: root). Read Faulkner and Chekhov and Woolf and McCullers and Dostoevsky, and realise, in the middle of my evening, that I have nothing to offer, nothing to add, not a single leaf to drop in the river. What next? Am I not committed enough to write an entire novel? Must I try and try and try (ad infinitum) and then, just once, delete, forever and ever? It’s a tiring existence when I can’t type for five minutes without losing all faith in myself. But I’m here now, in this flat alone, and, fucking cunt that I am, I can’t think of anything else to do other than to write and write and write and write and write and write and write and write and write until I go even madder. I write because I’m no good at love or much else. So, on it goes.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blank Template By subinsb.com