So I spent yesterday in a funk worrying about bad reviews and how I never wanted to be a writer in the first place and ouch this hangovers not going away and There is a funny smell coming from the fridge. I'm sure it's an omen.
That was yesterday. Today I remembered that Plan B is to stay in bed for as long as is needed (half ten this am, not bad...) with tea, cigarettes (I know, aren't I a dirty slattern.) and a notepad. Ignore outside world, it's phoney anyway. Write out in longhand, with detailed tangents and descriptions, the Absolute Worst Case Scenario. Snivel, moan, wallow in self pity. Blow nose, get up and get half dressed. Make tea.
Feel much better. Remember the point is to write what you WANT to write. The reason the review shook me (jeez, I haven't even read it yet) is because I worry so much about the book. When I'm happy with what I write I couldn't give a damn (well, not much) what people say. You get that buzzy feeling, and you just KNOW deep down that it's good. Not necessarily to everyone's taste, not even necessarily a great piece of writing. But simply that you wrote what you wanted to write today.
Ah. I'm thinking about tattoos and subways and dusty city alleys. This is the other writer's paradox - when you decide to take a day off from writing to work on your inner moron: hey presto, within ten minutes you're writing again. Or maybe it's that inner moron itself, tapping away quite happily...Bless her.