The oncoming train
I have got to stop messing about and get some serious writing done. Partly this is due to the fact that if I don't I'm going to rupture something, but I have to confess that a lot of my current drive is down to the fact that I cannot carry on in my current existance much longer before I start wearing my knickers on my head and talking to a luminous orange pixie called Mildred.
I know, I know-- I shouldn't complain so much. It could be (and has been) a hell of a lot worse. But, dear morons, I spent seven-and-three-quarter hours today in an underventilated work space with not enough chairs, putting bloody silver pendants onto bloody plastic cards. I must have done about five thousand of those suckers. And then there's the flat; I like it here, but the place is falling down around my ears. The latest disaster is the bathroom ceiling: it's riddled with dry rot and will need to be ripped out and replaced. I mean, there is scaffolding in my bathroom that is holding up the ceiling.
This unnerves me somewhat.
Typical of these Victorian terraces-- oh, sure, they look picturesque, but the renovation is a nightmare. My landlord is a great bloke but he gets all the repairs done on the cheap, which means that nothing ever stays repaired for long. I don't know what the hell's going to happen if me and Mandy have to vacate while the work's being done. I'm just sick to death of the cheap rented places that I've lived in ever since I left home. I'm sick of the insecurity, I'm sick of the half-baked repair work, I'm sick of it all.
It's time I got myself dug in behind the keyboard to get some serious work done. I'm still tweaking a couple of articles that have, to all intents and purposes, been finished for weeks-- I just can't bear to stop fiddling with them and punt them out. That kind of thing has to stop. On the plus side, I finally bit the bullet and started work on a novel that I've been laying groundwork for over the last few months. It's going to be hard work, but potentially it is a very strong story.
Since all my other avenues have been cut off, I must get my writing career underway. I must get out of this life, or at least have some hope that I might get out of it one day. I need a to see a light at the end of this tunnel. Even an orange one called Mildred.