I don’t know why I blog.
I haven’t worked on the novel since 5th September.
Other than a short story I wrote for a competition which took about four days, I haven’t written since 5th September.
Now I don’t know why I wrote that short story or why I entered that competition. It all seems rather pointless. Obviously if I win, that would be amazing, but it’s not going to happen. The story’s OK. That’s pretty good for me – to say it’s OK – but in reality it probably isn’t. I mean, right now I think it is but I bet if I read it in a year’s time I’ll hate it. Which is good, it means I’ve improved. But it also means the story’s crap.
I also don’t know how I managed it. How I made myself write that story and enter it. Doing something like that now seems impossible.
If everything I write today I’ll hate in a year’s time, what’s the point? But if I write something and still think it’s good in a year’s time, that’ll mean I haven’t improved in a year.
I don’t know which is worse.
Some people say they love writing. I just don’t get that. I used to – when I was in school. I don’t know when I stopped.
I like to think it makes me a better writer – to not like writing – but I probably just tell myself that to feel better about it.
I feel superior to people who say they love writing. Like they’re amateurs and I’m a real writer because I hate it. But who’s the real writer – the person who does it everyday and loves it or the person who avoids it for months? Maybe I’m just jealous.
I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing or where I’m going.
And I don’t know why I blog.