Saturday, July 23, 2011

Doubting Thomasina

I spent most of today reading through the copyedited proof read version of my novel. It’s shite. Not the editing - the editor did a great job and would highly recommend her ( Emma Sherry). This is about the one hundred and seventieth time I’ve read the bloody thing and I won’t be in the least bit surprised if it sinks into the oblivion it deserves. I’m bloody tired of the whole thing and yet I have to spend more hours of my precious free time on it.

Yet I still insist on publishing it. Why? I don’t bloody know. It’s not going to cost me much – a little organising and some hours on the laptop plus plugging it left right and centre. But why in the name of God am I doing all that for something I have intense doubts about? I have a full-time reasonably paid job (which I hate) a home and family to care for – you’d think that would be enough for me. But it’s not – like himself ‘I still haven’t found what I’m looking for’. But will I ever? Will publishing this finally close it off for me. That’s it – I did it wrote a book and got a copy of it for friends and family. Now get on with my life.

I don’t think so. Writing has become almost a compulsion for me. Even though my typing technique is crap and I spend most of my time correcting typos. Even though a lot of what I write is discarded, binned, deleted. Why do I still keep f***in’ doing it? I can’t change the world with it. I can’t even change myself with it. But I can’t stop. I can’t move on to finishing something new until this novel is finally between two covers – no matter how crappy it is. Maybe by the end of next month I can finally open up a new blank screen and winking cursor and start on my REAL masterpiece.

Then I heard of Amy Winehouse’s death. And I felt guilty for being alive whilst she was gone for there was real talent. And look at the amount she achieved in her short short life. By God that lady could write and sing. What a poor demented soul she was – what a pity she didn’t make it through the miasma. And I looked at all I had – my husband, my boys, my extended family and friends and realised that I already had what was important to me and maybe the tragedy is that many people don’t ever ever realise that until it’s too late. So I’m stopping feeling sorry for myself and self doubting etc – I’m just going to do it and shag the consequences


  1. I know what you mean. Writing is a compulsion, even when I don't actually seem to do any, I'm still thinking about it. There's something about it that pulls me on... and I often doubt. Don't let your doubts get in the way. I think they come about from reading the same thing for a zillion times.

    Amy Winehouse... it's so sad. She had such an amazing talent. :(

  2. I think that if you have a book in you it comes out of you, just like a demon is exorcised.
    I don't think you should ask yourself any whys, just do it because you can.