A long lie until 05:30 this morning. I’d written another thousand words last night and with this morning’s two thousand, that’s me cracked twenty thousand.

I mentioned the other day that I was worried that the outline I’d written last month might’ve run out before I’d expanded it to fifty thousand words, so last night, I outlined another scene and this morning, I began writing that.

It’s funny. writing this, on my PDA, in the bath, having just finished this morning’s wrestle with ‘dystopian’, I’m hard-pressed not to continue writing this in the same archaic English my mmc narrates in.

The last couple of weeks have been typified by this sort of English: Victorian-via-de Sade. I’m finding myself slipping these terms into conversations, tweets and text messages – hours after my morning’s labours over the keyboard.

Presumably I’m not coming across as much more eccentric than I usually do – and that gives me a fair amount of scope, I fear!

Daniel Day Lewis, a full year after making ‘In the name of the father’, was still talking in the accent of the character he played.

One hopes he didn’t retain anything of Bill the butcher’s personality after appearing in ‘Gangs of New York’!

I’m starting to wonder whether what we write (or act out) has a semi-permanent effect on how we interact with the world.

Before this novel, I wrote a novel based very loosely on a treatment I’d written in 1987, after stirring in a horse doctor’s dose of the Leveson enquiry, which I was following (in a state of morbid fascination) on twitter.

In it I imagined various prominent politicians and celebrities as demon-worshipping murderers and cannibals, a resemblance I still see today!

Or maybe, that’s just the nature of British cultural life in the early twenty-first century.

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