Monday, June 30, 2003
I'm feeling pleased with myself that, despite the bad weather keeping me indoors so I couldn't do a walk if I'd wanted to, I did manage to get some writing done. It was real blood from a stone work today, trying to drag the words from brain to screen (if I wrote a novel that read like a blog I might have a bit more success, though I suspect from reading some other peoples work that I'm not the first person this thought has occured to). Part of the reason for my epic slowness is my brain's refusal at times where I get stuck to let me move on and come back to it, or to slap some rubbish down to tide me over. It insists on making me write as though this is the final and perfect draft, even though I know I'll be coming back later and changing the entire thing.
