September 3rd, 2006


(no subject)

Yesterday was too much cleaning in the morning, too much gadding about in the rain in the afternoon, and too much gin in the evening. The result today is an aching slow-moving bad-tempered me who's accomplished nothing at all except to replace the gin she drank last night, and who currently wishes she was one of those 'I had to get up to pee at 3 am and when I saw my compy I sat down and wrote these three stories and here they are. Now I'm going back to bed. Dated 3:45.' Because authors like that- authors with no internal editor- clearly never need to go back over a passage to get it right, probably never even think about a story before they write it, and certainly never find themselves stuck trying to get through even the little distance from point A to point C. They're the Mozart writers to us Salieri ones- you know, the ones who *suffer* while writing?- and I hope they die as per the script-- young, indigent, and convinced they've written nothing of any real worth yet.

(Possibly the codeine's started to work, because I don't really want anything of the sort. I've written stories that wrote themselves, without any pain at all, and it felt like being a secretary taking dictation. I had no input into the thing at all and no pleasure of creation. So fine, I'll go on wrestling with balky stories that refuse to co-operate. The devil you know...)