As you know (if you were paying attention last week) my brother was up to visit until Tuesday. So I saw him off at the bus stop and then headed straight to the library to get some books out and CATCH UP. I then spent the rest of Tuesday and pretty much all of Wednesday in a haze of dysphoria. By Thursday I was plummeting. I hated my novel. I hated writing. I hated myself.
Then I had a breakthrough. My novel did have a plot. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. And if my novel wasn’t so bad, maybe I wasn’t either.
Since then I’ve tumbled through the world in a state of euphoria. Grinning and giggling for no reason. My novel is everything. It’s all I can think about. I tear myself away at about 3am and collapse into bed only to lie awake for hours thinking about it. I forget to eat. And when I remember that I probably should eat, it seems like a chore. In me, this is normally the sign of a grave illness. My room is a state. Dirty pots have been piling up in the kitchen (sorry!) I think I’m in love.
And it’s not good for me.
It’s a good job I’m nearly done (only 5,560 words to go!) because I really don’t know how much longer I could go on like this.
This novel could kill me but it would be so worth it.