I wrote a rough treatment of ‘person-hair’ over the last couple of days. Just a couple of thousand words, basic plotting and a few scenes, but enough to base a fuller version on.
I’ve been chopping away at it all week, adding characters, smoothing them into each other.
There’s a perverse and masochistic pleasure – like slowly pulling off a long scab – in this bit of the creative process.
It doesn’t feel like this shitty story will go anywhere or amount to anything.
That’s the internal censor, the arsewipe inside who tells me I can’t write. Unfortunately, as a facet of my own mind, it’s not a voice I can silence by the simple application of force. I need to apply a bit of skull here.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cunt.” (Mimi McGuire: Shameless)
I’ve also made a list of characters. There’s thirty-one of the bastards (for now) ten of whom will need to be fully fleshed out before I start the writing proper.
now, why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
Guaranteed – absolutely NO traces of horse DNA anywhere in this novel. And that’s the truth – or my name’s not David Cameron.