Friday, 11 February 2011


I started editing my novel at the beginning. It was cosy there. The writing was fairly polished. So I got my fingers on the keyboard and polished it up a bit more. As I ventured deeper, the writing got fuggier. I pulled it together as best I could.

After ten thousand words, the plot completely disintegrated. I, the writer, disappeared into a plot hole of my own making. I'd like to say I'm clawing my way out. But I'm not sure I am. I'm at the complication dangling from a plot precipice with no idea how to get out.

I like to think of writing as the safest extreme sport there is. The biggest danger is it might send a person mad. I think about that sometimes, as I write about cities made of living flesh, dreams bleed into reality, and I wake up trying to work out how to kill the mechanical woman.

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