Tie me with a silk scarf to my Herman Miller chair. A great chair (acquired for about forty quid) doesn't guarantee a great book, but unless you sit in it, nothing is ever going to be written. It has been a restless week full of distractions, mostly happy.
Not good enough. And nothing to do with hearing from agents and that well-known publisher I approached four weeks ago with a tentative enquiry and an SAE. Zilch on all counts. Nil points; no response. More pings and the clattering of the letter box next week, hopefully.
There's a lot of greens involved in writing a book. Sometimes they taste sweet and tender; sometimes it's a tough and tasteless chew, full of stringy bits. It can be all toothpicks and embarrassing shreds caught in your teeth.
But you have to sit there till it's done. There's no pudding until you've eaten your greens.
No comments:
Post a Comment