Long hard road out of hell.
Welp. It’s been a very long month. What with driving lessons, feline shenanigans, child wrangling, Christmas planning (and spending), epic twitter spam and an impromptu visit to my mother’s place for four days, I really didn’t expect that I’d make it.
I only went and fucking did it, didn’t I?
Yes, folks. Somehow I managed to churn out 50,000 words of what I suppose could loosely be described as a badly-written, unfinished novel. It’s barely readable, and I had to throw all concepts of character development and decryptable plotlines out of the window, but I did it. I’m so unfathomably proud of myself. If I’d tried to do it last year, it would have ground to a screeching halt, just like my 2005 effort (in which your intrepid author managed a paulty 14,000 words before jacking it all in and spending the rest of November watching TV and eating cake).
I like to think, in a way, that you lot, the few of you that there are, are in some way responsible for my success. I started writing this blog not just to share my experiences and tribulations with the world at large, but also to prove to myself that no matter how broken I am, I still have the one thing left, the only thing in fact, that I could ever really admit I was any good at.
I can still write.
The joy of knowing that is akin, I imagine, to the feeling I would get if I woke up one day feeling completely healthy. I may not have my body, my energy, my drive, my concentration, my motivation, my memory or my intellect, but dammit. I have my words. And no fucker will ever take them away from me.
In other dramatic news, my city is currently buried under a pristine layer of white, the earliest winter snowfall in 17 years. Birdie is loving it, especially when I manage to get him to remember to take his hat, scarf and gloves with him where ever he goes. The cats have swapped roles; my old girl who usually stays in all day is asking to be let out every five minutes so she can go play in the snow, and my tomcat, who usually spends all day and most of the night out terrorising the neighbourhood, is instead curled up under my bed next to the radiator, getting up once a day to glance out of the window and then give me a look that says “Seriously? You’ve got to be fucking joking. I wouldn’t go out in that shit if you paid me my weight in catnip.”
I don’t mind it so much. I like to watch it from indoors. But tomorrow I have to go out in it, to do the theory part of my driving test, and I am not at all pleased about the prospect, not to mention the fact that I’ve spent so much time with my head in my novel this month that I haven’t revised AT ALL. The drive to pass is fuelled entirely by the fact that I can’t afford to take it again. Wish me luck!
In other other news, I am still desperately and tediously single. I don’t have sex dreams anymore. Instead, I dream about endless, unsatisfying masturbation. I’m starting to get used to it, I suppose. But connecting with other humans in any meaningful way is frought with complication at the moment, especially when I still don’t understand why my last relationship failed so miserably. But in the new year, I’m at least going to start making an effort to relate to people for a bit. It might work, it might not. But it couldn’t hurt, I suppose.
Oh, and I’m getting a new phone on Friday. Ahh, technology, my one and only vice. Well, almost.
~ by surprisingme on December 2, 2010.