Friday, April 27, 2012


 …I wrote a bad book.
I wrote a novel last year.  It was a long haul.
I wrote it and rewrote it and then edited it some more.
A week ago I realized that somehow the physical manuscript had become tampered with.  I might have punched a button by accident.  Or something like that.
The indentations all disappeared.
So, to correct this mishap, I spent several hours indenting each paragraph until my hand went numb.
Along the way, I found many typos I'd managed to miss in the first three versions/edits.
Along the way, I re-visited those words and discovered that quite a lot of them were drivel.
I learned the novel was really not that good.

 And so I pouted for a few hours.  I got selfish  I wallowed in self-pity.
Then I mentally pulled myself out of the funk and realized I just needed to write a better book.
That is what I'll do.

 …Here are some things for the weekend, all from Robb Todd's collection, "Steal Me For Your Stories":

 “You know what is great about the sun?  It doesn’t give a shit about your problems.”
“I wonder what I make for this world that is useful other than problems for people.”
“Anger is almost always useless.”
“Nothing makes me want you more than you wanting me.”
“The only women who want me are the women who hate themselves.”

1 comment:

  1. Hey, I'm going to do that, too! Been in that same place bar numb fingers, otherwise same thing (with two bad novels instead of one). The road ahead's always the more interesting road. Congrats on your collection, mate!