Tomorrow is D-day and nine o'clock is D-hour. I must, simply must, get around to commencing my novel again. I'm dreading the return. I've got that Sunday afternoon sinking feeling already, you know the one where your brain starts to think about the morning commute to work and the detritus on your desk at the office. What's even worse, it's been four weeks since I looked at the piece and I know my compulsive self will not permit me to sit and begin to write at once. I will be required to reread the previous ten chapters, ostensibly under the guise of reacquainting myself with the plot's thread of which I am intimately knowledgeable. I will be required to search for all the grammatical errors and weak words I've used and eviscerate all immediately. I will be required to despise what I've written and endure shrieks of internal self-doubt. Only after I have done all of this will I be permitted to continue. Sustaining me through this purgatory will be the memories of last night--more about this tomorrow-- and the anticipation of next Saturday's "End the Winter Doldrums" party.
[technorati: Irish writers, Novels, Writing fiction]