Last night, I made a decision. Today, I was going to get all my writing stuff organised for this holidays. I was going to make big plans; writing retreats, competitions, and last but not least, I was going to work on my novel. But this morning I got up and something had changed.
The drive was gone. I didn't want to write. I didn't want to read. I didn't even want to watch TV. I blame the weather. Whenever it gets drizzly and overcast, and I am cooped up at home, I get grizzly and restless. I'm serious. A few weeks ago, it was drizzly and overcast AND there were police helicopters flying around all day AND I got a dvd stuck in the dvd player, so when mum called how to find out how I was going, naturally I burst into tears. Today, I'm not quite at the tears point, but I would enjoy breaking things.
I've been trying everything. I tried rereading what I'd already written on the new draft. I got all my writing gear out of its little box and made a pile on the bed. I took photos of the little pile. I had something to eat and watched TV. I looked for one of the DVDs that makes me want to write, but I haven't been able to find the disc for months. (The film is called Orange County, if you're interested.) But it was no use. I am not feeling it today.
This sucks. A few months ago I was feeling great about my book. I was thinking that this would be my year, that I would enter the TAG Hungerford award and maybe I would even win. And then I got turned around again. I realised that I clearly know nothing about the time period... too bad I really hate researching, because I tried that today too. And then I wrote something, about 500 words. And then I deleted those 500 words because they were awful.
I think this afternoon I am going to be reading my own manuscript. Prepare for an even worse melancholia than this one, world, because I am my own worst critic!
Here is the aforementioned photo. Yes I own a smurfs pillow.