11 January 2006
It is of course a fact universally acknowledged (and is that the best-ever opening to a novel, or just the most-ripped off?) that any hint of worky satisfaction, the slightest suggestion of hey-this-book-is-actually-going-well will immediately be followed by collapse of stout party. My skull is full of catarrh, but you donít want to hear about that; my mind is full of a new project (that I had a meeting about this afternoon, and Iím not going to say another word for three months, till we know the result thereof; are you tantalised or what?); my left arm is full of pins-and-needles, which means a resumption of visits to the physio, which is sickening; my house is full of draughts, from where they didnít seal the new windows properly (snarl...!); and I might have ignored all of this and carried on regardless with the new book, except that the proofs of the last one dropped through the door this morning, and as usual I have negative time to correct them and get them back to the States, so thatís what Iím doing now and for the next few days. Storytelling will just have to chug on subconsciously, while I am preoccupied with punctuation.
© Chaz Brenchley 2006
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.