Smuggity Smugface Fails at Words

Day three. My latest imaginary boyfriend is Mark Ronson – he gets on better with the imaginary cat.

But back to “Day three”…

I went to bed pretty smug last night. Not just smug, actually: Smuggity. I was Smuggity as hell. Neil Gaiman-esque.

I’d had a good session (of writing, don’t be filthy) in the evening and felt like I’d cruised to my word count without problems, having written in some good interaction between my characters, solid dialogue, plodding-but-actual tension building towards a definite scene climax and revearsal. I keep calling it the ‘Wronski Feint’, but I think that’s actually something from Harry Potter. You know, like in Quidditch… *Ahem* AS IF I know about Quidditch tactics. What do you think I am, some kind of loser? Oh. Hang on…

Anyway, even though I keep calling it by the wrong(ski) name I *am* actually thinking of a real thing. I think. I’m thinking of a term Mark Gatiss used in A History of Horror to describe a particular kind of tension release and revearsal of expectations in horror movies (used by and named after some director or other). An example of the kind of situation it describes is, say, where a woman is walking down a dark alley and hears footsteps coming after her; she quickens her pace; the footsteps also quicken; she breaks into a run; suddenly there’s a hand on her shoulder (moment of maximum tension) BUT in a revearsal of expecations (is it the monster/murderer?) it is revealed that it’s just the friend she’s on her way to meet. That kind of thing.

I’m getting carried away. The point was supposed to be that I’d done a day’s-worth of good writing, felt highly pleased with myself, greased my moustache (I don’t have one but if I did it would be like Dali’s), and did a lot of “faw faw-ing” before going to bed a confirmed Smuggity.

Tonight, I write nothing (to do with my story). I’m not even properly procrastinating. I just have absolutely no plans whatsoever to write. And do you know why? BECAUSE I DID WELL YESTERDAY AND TO CONTINUE TODAY WOULD BE TO INVITE FAILURE! Deep, right? Like, totally.

What I want to know is this: who the hell invited my inner bloody editor to take part in this project? I thought I’d sent the snarky bitch off on holiday for a month; why the hell is she back so soon?

Let’s do a count: 1700 tonight + 1700 that I’ll fail to write tomorrow night because of  bonfirenightbrilliance + 1700 on hangoversaturday = 6800 words on Sunday.

Probs well easy, that. Right? Right guys?

Shit.

Some of all of the things.

One of the things about writing is that there’s never a good time.There’s always something else going on, something that needs you’re attention, something you are supposed to do or to have already done, something you need to worry about, something you need to think about.

One of the other things about writing is that it’s a nostalgic activity. It was always better in the past, always easier, quicker, funnier, better. What the hell is wrong with you, Writing? I thought we were friends. We used to have fun together, didn’t we? What about all those nights we spent together, up until dawn – they were good times, weren’t they? I’m sure I remember them as good times…

Another one of the things about writing is that you need to be in THAT MOOD to do it, and THAT MOOD isn’t always the most condusive mood for normal life.

Another one of the other things about writing is that when you lose your voice, it really does NOT sound sexy.

One of the another other things about writing is that it takes up so much energy: thinking energy, avoiding energy, doing energy, procrastinationing energy, guilt energy, snacking energy, taking two baths in a day energy. All the different energies.

There are so many bloody THINGS about writing…

PLUS other writers are all smug bastards (Neil Gaiman, I’m talking about YOU).

1800 words down, another 1600 tonight. 2000 would be better. Apparently my characters live in a small seaside town in a city that’s nowhere near the sea. And it’s seemingly aimed at kids in the 8-12 bracket, with the occasional chapter that’s more appropriate for some kind of non-fiction geological tome, and parts that even the imaginary cat that I don’t own wouldn’t piss on.

T’was brillig…