The biggest problem with writing is that it’s a solitary affair — hours spent shuffling spectres round the arse end of nowhere hoping not too many of their non-existent heads need chopping off at the editing stage to appease imaginary agents and readers.
Some say writing can drive you mad.
I say it drives you to muffins —and my swelling midriff agrees.
If you’re a writer, every once in a while it does you good to take a potter out to the greenhouse and read aloud to whatever you have growing in there (even if it’s a corpse-shaped fungal aberration slumped in the corner by the dibber dispenser).
Even better, is committing yourself to video.
So here’s the start of a my current Chapter Ten — complete with irritatingly unfixable timelag and Depp-inspired quasi-bandana.
Storywise, all you really need to know is encapsulated in this handy blurb:
Hapless loser Duane Pistaine is all at sea.
The plan had been to crash a party and declare his undying love for Kate.
But that was before the courage-boosting booze and drugs.
Head full of stories from his favourite comics, he stumbles into town, unaware his goggle eyes are witness to a vomiting up of the town’s darkest secrets he will later wish he’d witnessed a little more clearly....
Would you read anything like this — or are you just after my bandana?