‘I know you all hate me,’ he said staring at the floor ashamedly. Now I don’t know if that is a crass line or a good line. But it was the second thing that entered my head after I pressed the ‘Add Post’ button. Why hate me? Well I haven’t posted for three weeks. Is that narcissism, vanity or a joke? Anyway; don’t write a novel. I say this because I have finished the first complete draft of ‘the novel’ after about five years of messing around with it. Someone once said that writing a book is like entering a forest. With the sunlight gleaming over the canopy and the trees softly swaying in the breeze it looks like an exciting adventure. But, having entered the forest and rejected the well trodden path of others in order to create your own path; it becomes dark and foreboding, and you often lose your way. Yup, I’m right in there with no bloody machete because the Amazon wife took it for the Ivy.
So, now I’m reading – not true – I’m devouring every novel I can lay my hands on, searching for my path, studying layouts, descriptions and dialogue. Meanwhile my novel is devouring me. When I shut my eyes the characters are there, arms folded tapping their bloody feet and scowling. Waiting for direction, slowly losing faith in my ability to project them into a world of memorable fiction. So, no, if you’re considering it, dont write a book. Unless you’re a masochist like me 😉