Up at seven, revised another dozen pages of “the last film”. now that it’s building to its shuddering climax, i’m starting to feel almost maternal towards the fucker.

I’m smoothing the dialogue – both internal and external – and bringing all the strands together for the ending.

Revising’s a whole different ball-game to the flat-out blitzkrieg of shitting out a first draft.

In writing (as opposed to editing) i’ve just arrived in a crazy crowded boozer full of strangers and i’m getting to know them; what they wear, how they behave. their accents, preferences and prejudices.

Some of them even open up about their secrets, or their kinks.

Revising feels more like i’m directing the rehearsals for the movie of the pub: “and, CUT! No, love. Alison wouldn’t say that. she’s spiky, straight-from-the-shoulder. doesn’t call a spade a manual-earth-moving-implement.

Awright? Can we run through that again from where Donovan enters?

Positions, everyone… and ACTION!”

In the last twelve months, i’ve written the first drafts of four novels. this is the first time i’ve sat down and revised one from start to finish.

When i originally wrote “1919” in 2007/8, it was in the form of a blog. I wrote every spare second i had. (and one day, there’ll be little dignified plaques, on scattered toilet doors around Merseyside.)

JK Rowling might have written the first Harry Potter in the non-smoking section of the nellie house in Edinburgh, but “1919” was written in scouse shitters and sleepover rooms.

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