I am a puffing red faced mess, I have this cough with a squeaky tail on it, its pitch is of such height I must be annoying dogs up to half a mile away. Yes, I cycled in with a hangover that contained Moroccan.
Yesterday was fucking awful; I landed on Monday like a tramps turd dropping into a cradle of threadbare underpant. I felt reluctant to breathe; it was one of those fucking days where one is wallowing in a combination of worthlessness and nonchalance, I could barely be arsed to summon up the desire to exist. As far I was concerned, this was it, my life was an office based fuck up, I’d never subscribed to this when I finished my fucking MA, this was meant to be a stop gap…
The day flopped on; I moaned at Myfwt when she called at lunch, emailed friends copped it in the neck, colleagues barely got the time of day. By the time I left work I was at the end of my tether, Christ, I saw Stephen Fry moaning about how depressed he was over the weekend (on TV I hasten to add) he should try seeing it from the side of someone whose not a cunting millionaire genius loved by all and fucking sundry. Even Jesus would forgive him for being a bummer.
I switch on my PC when I got in to check for any straggling emails, a friend aware of my general malaise advised me to go home and carry on with the book. The fucking book, no one gave a tinkers cuss about the first one (which, I’ll admit needs some tidying, but it’s okay though) so what hope does this one have? I looked at what I’d done, the sub plot synopsis, the dialogue, the wanky characters, utter fucking rubbish; I couldn’t progress with this… Bye bye book.
Just on the brink of zapping the whole thing into the recycle bin when it occurred to me that I was gawping at one fundamental mistake, which, if undone, would unblock the plug, solve the sub plot and offer me freedom to move within the structure I’d set. The answer, give the main character an office based job.
It doesn’t need to have anything to do with this place, though naturally elements of it will creep in, but the politics, the conversation, the arseholes in an office offer scope for so much richness, obviously. I’d originally settled on my character being a despatch rider (I used to be one) but when I did it mobile phones weren’t around, it was all two way radios, so I was trying to set it in the early 90’s and half remembering how it all worked and how that in turn effected the fucking plot, because it wasn’t helping shit… REMOVE this one element, one has nirvana.
So, I wrote last night, only a couple of hours, I wanted to sit back and drink to my health, toast my plot and let it swirl round in my brain in it’s new incarnation. I sort of forgot to eat but the Bordeaux was excellent and the pair of G&T that followed saw me off into a calm and relaxed sleep.
Back in the office today, doing research.