He’s a whore – big black

Another two thousand words squeezed out last night after a full day’s training. That’s me well over thirty thousand (I’m assuming – I didn’t update my word count last night).
I’ve hit that point where characters are starting to surprise me – doing and saying things I never planned and didn’t expect.
There’s a point in every novel where one’s creations start standing up on their hind legs and calling their creator by hir first name. Faced with this, one can cast them down into the fiery pit like a dore engraving or you can just sit back and transcribe the movie.
And what a movie this is turning out to be! Elements of every lousy job I’ve ever had, peopled by every arsewipe I’ve ever worked, studied or broke rocks next to. The galloping neuro-atypical on a bed of draconioan exploitation – it’s well seeing we gots a tory back in number ten.
Which begs the question: if scotland gets independance in a couple of years, will there still be sufficient horrors to write about?
I remember when the edinbury whoors travelled to copenhagen in 1998, we all found it difficult to write anything. Take us out of all that scottish presbyterian thou-shalt-not philophobia and we’re like fish out of pish – redundant.
I took notes on our trip, but it was an uphill struggle. Neither sandie or ray wrote a damn thing whilst we were in denmark.
Talking about it, a day or two before coming back to blighty, we all agreed that we needed the sexual repression and omnipresent sense of judgemental dread we’d grown up with.
Which is sad, really.

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