Fourteen thousand words already. The plot’s hanging together fairly well, if not the characters. And, as always, as soon as I start writing the thing, I get a million new ideas.
If anything, I’ve been beating myself up over how little work I’ve been doing on my novel. Damn, this protestant work ethic – it’s gie-en me gyp, so it is!
The inner critic is one of the fiercest enemies I face whilst engaged in the squeezing out of create-work.
Ignoring it, ripping out its vocal cords, even silencing its voice for good, all of these strategies seem like a far cuddlier option than listening to a lecture by a know-it-all who needs its lungs ripped out.