As some of you may have noticed, this blog was set up – partly at least
– as an account of my endeavour to complete my novel – and it may have occurred to you that there’s been singularly little about writing so far. The
reasons for this I shall save for another post, but tonight was the first time (in a few months) that I actually sat down with the intention to write
something. Not that I did, of course – though I did end up, as is my wont, making a few adjustments to the word order of a few sentences I’d
previously written and deleting a couple of superfluous phrases.
I was thinking though tonight that I’d write a short story – and, thinking
this, I thought I’d look at a short story I’d started a few months ago, just to see whether that one had been any good: – and to my horror I found
that, no, it had certainly not. – How could I ever have written such a terrible beginning to a story; – and how could I ever have written such a
terrible beginning and (I’m sure I recall, at the time) thought it any damn good. – Momentarily, losing faith, I thought I’d better have a quick
look at my novel too – just to make sure everything about my appreciation of own writing wasn’t a mistake: – but thankfully it wasn’t, and once
again I was pleasantly surprised. (No doubt it’s just one of those days).
But it’s strange, I think, that I could take up again on my novel
exactly where I left off, and there might be six months since I last wrote a word of it, and yet I’ll carry on in exactly the same vein, with exactly
the same worth (in my opinion) to the writing; – whereas, I can try and start something new, and suddenly I can’t find a voice at all or string two
worthwhile sentences together, and the whole thing is just dreadful.