Scribble scribble scribble, tappety tappety tap.

Just over 5000 words into the Other Novel. One small problem: they are 5000 words of SUCK. Suckitude doesn't cover it. It's a suckgasm. A tornado of suction. Waahh. Re-reading it today, I got so depressed. It was so bad I took most of the day off and defrosted the fridge.

All I want is to make the same amount of money out of writing that I could make mopping floors. That's all I'm trying for at the moment. I don't have fantasies about walking into FNAC and seeing shelvesful of the latest Mordant Carnival; I don't dream of signing autographs or Being Famous. I don't even give a shit if I have to work 16 hour days to make the same money I was getting for 8 hours as a cleaning lady. I just want to do what I do, this one thing that I reckon I'm good at. That's all.

It's not a big ask.