Another re-write bites the dust. This time a weird horror story set in present-day Dublin. It required an extra scene, and a lot of fundamental re-writing. There were the usual plethora of as ifs and likes to cut out (one of my weaknesses, as I’ve mentioned before).
So far this month I’ve been productive. Partly that’s because I’m going to be away for chunk of next week, and I’m trying to stockpile words so I won’t feel guilty about not writing while I’m on holiday.
Word-guilt is my constant companion. It doesn’t care about trips away, or office chores, or messy life situations that overwhelm one’s day. It taps its clawed foot (clack-clack) on the side of the keyboard, and its bird-like black eyes narrow at me if I don’t start working.
Writing this blog entry, doesn’t count, for instance. It is perched on top of my LCD monitor at the moment (“Hey, watch the claws, don’t puncture the screen”), giving me an unimpressed look.
The only thing that matters is adding to the word-trove. That is a Dagda‘s cauldron: never full, always hungry. It can be sated for a short while, but sooner than I’d like Word-guilt is dispatched to prod me into adding to the black pot again.
Yeah, yeah, I hear you.