This latest draft of ‘the c-word’ is the one where I smooth each section, perfect it.
I’m finding this really difficult. I’m impatient to get my fingers into the bastard and start gouging the fucker.
I’m going to tough it out, hang on for November and NaNoWriMo. I didn’t do NaNoCamp in August – first one I’ve missed in about three years. I missed it. I feel like a sick junkie, raw and shivering. I know that once I get those first few drops on my lips, the drive, the sheer motorised instinct will take over and I’ll be writing again.
Like Geoffrey Rush’s Sade in the film ‘quills’, everything else is fuel for the writing that, if I try to stem it, will explode me.

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Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

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A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.

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