God, it's all over the place. Sex scenes won't come when they're called and then they pop up and run over when they're not supposed to. I keep thinking 'where's the fucking plot' and then thinking well, maybe the fucking is the plot, but is that enough?
Beyond that, I'm so tired. For some reason writing novels makes me feel like I'm trying to work out the meaning of life at the same time. I had it last Tuesday, but then it fell down the gap in the sofa cushions, and now I'm having to re-read Kierkegaard all over again.
That's a complete lie, I've never read Kierkegaard.
Anyway, I'm groping around blindly and so are my characters. There's a lot of sex, yes, but I do want it to have some deeper meaning (I don't mean morally, I gave that up years ago) but story wise.
God, when I finish this I am going to have a glass of wine as big as ... as ... a zeppelin!
Curious paradox, too, when writing: want to spill everything, tell someone everything, everything, in the greatest detail, from the glossiness of lupin leaves to the confusion I feel when trying to imagine nebulae, and all of history, and every memory. Yet, too, struck dumb. Ignoring the phone. Forgetting friends and family. Trying to turn oneself into a giant earmouth and nothing else, shutting down some senses until the point where the words come out is concentrated enough to drip, drip, drip, and eventually flow, with luck.
See, blog posts, case in point. Make no sense. Dropping whatsits all over the places. Become large breathing writing-sponge and only characters talk. Author not talk. Unless in quotation marks, not real conversation. Very dull at parties. Just book. I am a big book with lots of white space from chapter six (and a half) until the end. Look, it's swirling, and I think I need to go and lie down now, can I have my pills please? Thank you. Alas.
P.S. If readers would rather be entertained by writers with witty and compus mentis thingummies, please check out the links on the sidebar. For now until I finish, I fear this garbled nonmoominsense is likely to continue. Write book, blog goes to pot. Yes.