New Leaf

I started my new novel today. I mean, the one I'm writing. (And the one I'm reading actually, which was a lot better than the last one - I finished The Story of B and would recommend it to you all.)

Anyway, my last disastrous attempt at writing has finally, for today anyway, been laid to rest. The story was a (barely) fictional account of the internal musings of a deranged, neurotic writer named Gwen. (Based on the real life internal musings of someone you probably don't know who is a deranged, neurotic writer with an old lady name).

Ah, but the new novel will be better. So far I only have a title and the first page - but it's there, waiting to be written, just outside the grip of my ball point pen, lurking just beyond the margins of my new notebook. It's coming. I can feel my mind in the throes of labour willing this masterpiece (or piece of you-know-what) to be conceived on the page. I'm excited.

I can't wait to be a real writer who actually writes a whole novel. I mean, if Dan can get away with that Arnold Schwarzenegger stint and make millions, surely I could at least finish something. Though, looking at this blog and that creepy piece of man meat here staring me down - I'm unconvinced that there's hope for me. We'll see how it goes.