Tuesday, June 09, 2009
There should be an excerpt from The New Rakes in this month's copy of Scarlet. I'm still waiting for the pixies to deliver a copy, as they don't stock That Sort of Thing in the local PO.
Meanwhile, I am buried under mountains of faded notes, scraps, torn paper, typed paper, scribbled, illegible, tear-stained, felt-pen, lipstick-written, piles of notebooks that make me feel like I'm going insane. (I'm clearing out my workspace)
Do all writers have this terrible cellar full of forgotten writings? There must be a million scribbled ideas here. Some of them I still like. But their manifold, cumulative existence makes me shiver and squirm and feel guilty and unhinged. Too many words, too many ideas, too many false starts. Suitcases full of notepads. Records of old debts, lovers, heartbreaks. Letters and poems and sketches and diagrams. A box full of notes and research for each of my novels, half a dozen rough and wrong drafts for each. A handful of other, unwritten, books.
I smell the bonfires of the future ...