Another dead day. This not-writing’s killing me. It’s fine when I have a project to sink my teeth into, but the absence of that feels like the whole world’s in black and white.
Look, Toto. Fucking Kansas – as far as the eye can see.
The thing is, I’m still skull-exhausted after finishing ‘Dystopian’ and I’m still sticking ideas to the basic one of ‘Hassle-home’, to see what works.
My next job will be revising ‘Light entertainment’ but so far, I’m just staring at it, willing it to tell me where to start.
I’ve hammered out my last three drafts – and loads of short fiction – on my netbook. Maybe it’s time to change my input method.
For years, I wrote my first drafts longhand. (And it’s true, different paper does provoke one to different voices.)
For some reason, I’m ultra-prolific on lined yellow writing pads.
When I wrote ‘1919’, I wrote the first half on my Sony Eriksson phone, which died. I completed it on the same dell PDA I’m usin to blog this atcha from my bath, yeah?
My next two novels were written on this PDA and the last three have been written on my netbook.
All of this technology is ageing. A new phone is called for. I love my wee bleakberry, but it won’t hold a charge for any length of time now. And RIM are pretty much on the ropes now, which is a shame. As a broke consumer and fully paid up member of the urban poor, I can’t go investing currency I barely have in technology that might not survive as long as the equipment itself.