This is a blog about nothing. Seriously. I’m not joking. This isn’t a ploy. This isn’t a device. I was ill at the end of last week and I’ve spent the last few months rewriting the same novel-length story three times, over and over again. It’s very possible that the last month has driven me ever so slightly mad.
Read MoreOkay, okay. The rewrite is moving into the home stretch. It really is. I'm pretty sure it is, only it’s taking longer than I wanted. It was meant to be finished this week and the delay has not been too good for my nerves. For my attention span. For my patience. It’s been a week of feeling defeated by my own story, but I'm pretty sure victory isn’t too far off now. Next week. I’m pretty sure it’s going to be next week. I hope it's going to be next week.
So, as I make a push to get this final, final, final draft finally completed I thought I’d use this week to share something with you. As things stand, what follows are the first 900 or so words my second novel will start with.
In more ways than I can really express right now, I hope you like it.
WARNING: The following blog was written by a sleep deprived horror writer. There will be rambling and a certain lack of sense. Also, there may be some typos and errors. If you do find any, then cherish them. Think of them like seeing the brushstrokes that make up the painting. Apparently there are other typos on this website, but the exhausted author would like to point out this is all free.
MESSAGE ENDS
Read MoreI used to write after work. I’d get home from whatever office or shop I was working in, have something to eat and then try to write for an hour or two. It worked to an extent, but the finished result always felt sluggish. It suffered from a lack of energy as plot and characters became handy ciphers allowing me to moan about my day. Back then, I was very much one of those people who spent a lot of time talking about writing, instead of actually writing. Or, at least, writing happily.
Read MoreI’ve always loved the cinema. It started with the first movie I ever went to see. My dad took me to the grand old, art deco Odeon that used to sit in central Leicester to watch the newly re-issued Jungle Book. It blew me away. The deep reaching perspective of Kipling’s jungle in the credits. The moody atmosphere that seemed to lurk in the opening few scenes and the sheer, wild delight that took its place until a certain tiger cornered a boy amongst dying trees, the flames spread and I was made to believe a heroic slob of a bear had died.
Read MoreSit down. The show’s about to start.
What’s that? How am I?
We probably don’t have time for that. I’m still rewriting the new novel. Taking it apart. Clearing out the problems and the pretentious ideas. Rebuilding it into something that will hopefully attract more readers and sell better.
I mean, you’ve got to get your kicks somewhere, right?
Last week the rewrite behaved itself. Motivation was up. Momentum was on my side. Things went well. This week, almost predictably, not so much. The rewrite has turned on me. Causing the Unwelcome Catholic in my head to say that’s what I get for feeling good about myself. It’s been a week of steeper slopes and stupid problems.
So long motivation and momentum. Hello, frustration, my old friend.
Step right up, Ladies and Gentlemen. Here it is, hot off the press (depending on when you're reading this). This is the second ever story sketch on The Blank Page. Instead of a long and rambling blog, Long Words proudly presents a short piece of strange fiction for your delectation. We hope you enjoy it. If only because there will be more.
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