So far, July has been a bit of a damp squib. I was bordering on hyper during June. Honing and buffing the stories that have taken me months and years to write, so I could meet the deadlines for various competitions. I also started submissions again, approaching any literary agents who mention the word humour, somewhere, anywhere, on their wishlist. My excuse as to why not much blogging got done in June 2020.
Writing is not for the faint-hearted. The hardest part for all us aspiring writers is maintaining the motivation and drive to, as a fellow writers group member so succinctly put it… push you over the line.’
We need to keep the faith in our ability as writers and drive ourselves from final draft stage to getting published.
It does bother me that I spend everyday writing, but never allow myself time to sit and read a book these days. But, I have decided to stop beating myself up about it because I do read. I read a lot, but not always in the good old-fashioned way.
These days, thanks to the Internet, it is so easy to tap into a plethora of resources for literature, art and just about everything else… 24/7. So I quench my constant thirst for knowledge browsing the Net.
I don’t think my mother read any of my literary contributions since I had poetry published at eleven when she had high hopes that I would become Gloucestershire’s answer to William Wordsworth. Oh, and helping my step-father piece together his aeronautical autobiography, of course.
So reliant I have become on Word to record my every word, I have now programmed myself to restart and try to recapture that inspiration.
I’ve been pussyfooting around this passion of mine for too long and now I feel like I am writing for my life.
She still tried to make an effort on the fashion front but, tottering around in ridiculously high heels every day, was beginning to take a toll on her ankles.
I have reached the point of no return and I am terrified. I want to cry. I want to run away from it. I want to read Stephen King’s On Writing … again … on a desert island with no interruptions, because I seem to have forgotten everything he said.
Sam broke the silence and eye contact was reestablished. The words said one thing, but the eyes were saying something else. There was no glimmer of reciprocated emotion, just an apologetic sadness. Nicky always had that nagging doubt, an inner fear that their relationship, the one she had thrown her heart and soul into was always destined to be a one-sided, temporary arrangement. A fling, a game, an experiment. She had been right.
‘I’m glad you rang, I’ve got a bit of news for you. How was your flight?’ ‘News? Good, I hope. The flight was bloody brilliant actually. I met Rory in the departure lounge at Gatwick. He was also headed for Faro and he dropped me off at my […]
The first draft of anything is shit – Ernest Hemingway
Writing a Blog is one thing, but writing a book is a totally different ball game and at times it can be a very lonely one. I should know, I am 14 Chapters into my Work In Progress. I am completely alone, wrestling with those exasperating characters at all hours […]
Take a look at that, you pompous windbag …. from Disney’s Cinderella (1950) A few years ago at work, I sent an email to one of the companies we dealt with on a daily basis to tell them why I did not agree with a decision they had made […]