Day Eight: Nowt. I had a cold, alright! I felt like I'd been hit in the back of the head with a spade and, when I sat down to look at my rising novel, I couldn't remember what I was doing on this planet [not much, apparently...], let alone what the novel was about, or how to type words. So I gave up.
Am I disappointed? Yes. Am I surprised? No. Life's what happens you while you're busy making other plans, so I've forgiven myself and am going to make the words up over the next two days.
Day Nine: 2,701 words. It took me quite a while to get to it, and I'm in bed rather than at my desk, but today's material came pretty readily. I got pissed off that I keep starting off on a track of thought and just end up fucking off somewhere else, again, but that's pretty natural. I think it's due to the largely autobiographical nature [sorry if I've said this before] of this piece - the tide of memory is powerful and washes away the mind's strivings to plot and form.
Maybe, with enough momentum, I'll exhaust the 'contentness' of my head and be able to craft properly. Or maybe it'll become easier when I'm fully well again. Who knows?
Day Ten: 2,431. Tough. Made it hard on myself by starting late and repeatedly checking Facebook and a game on my phone. I know how stupid it is, don't get me wrong, but I'm still lounging in bed with the remnants of this cold, so... Well, no, that's not actually an excuse. I just have extremely poor will power most of the time. Sigh...
Some decent surrealism today, though. Bit of a shame the extra word count target led to some isolated and fragmented passages of pure piss. Onwards, already! And fingers crossed I knock this Lemsip addiction on the head :)
Day Eleven: 1,536. The cold re-jigged itself to my dismay and led to a debilitating lie in. To make the most of my remaining time, I wrote some stuff on the bus on my phone on my way into Lancaster. That's good: shows determination and application. But then I did my usual distractful things. That's bad: shows I'm an idiot who's slow to learn [although I did really enjoy Cabaret].
Will have some extra words to write tomorrow to make up for today's shortfall, but really that's a better option than either starting a new section now and being up 'til five, or tacking crap on to the end of this, knowing it'll be exhausted rubbish that I'll have to snip out of the fur later.
Day Twelve: 1,850. Strange one. Strange day. In many ways I made it the worst possible 'scene', but I was back on the beer [after nearly a week off] and my being was so 'out there' again. The Doors were helping me just float away.
'Consequently' [though maybe it's not linked...] I've been in the flow. I had one interruption, where I checked the word count and was shocked how low it was. But, then, the next pass took me where I needed to be and all was well.
Some touching things touched upon, and the overall 'jigsawness' of this novel is becoming, if not clearer, at least illuminated so that I may make it clearer at some point. Groovy.
Day Thirteen: 1,764. What a mess...
Day Fourteen: 1,949. Things don't seem any less messy, really, but I'm going to try to avoid the world's issues - as solipsistic as it sounds - because this is about this. But I'm going to talk about other life anyway, so HYPOCRITE!
Had a do in Lancaster. Woke up late because of personal problems. Wrote some stuff on the way in. Thought I did well, in spite of the underage drunken chavs laughing and playing their music... Got back after a 9/10 night. Had done 440 words - a fucking gut punch, really
Foiled a [n extremely minor] robbery at the garage across the road. Then mum called down from upstairs. I thought it was an emergency, ran to the stairs, slipped and hit my bloody, pus-filled toe [hello ladies!] on a chair leg. My hatred and self-loathing picked up dramatically.
So, long story short, it was a real struggle to finish it tonight, largely down to my own foibles. I kept thinking I'd done rather well, but it turned out to be, like, four words more... $$£&ing "%£$!
Glad in the end, though.