It's a little disconcerting to see how quickly a story involving abuse seems to attract readers compared to the other stories I've posted here. Maybe that's why Waterstones have a special section for "painful lives" these days.

I'm actually fairly happy with the story, though at least one key conversation needs a fair bit of work. It's not the worst early draft, though. Given a few more days (weeks? Years?) I may actually come up with a credible finished product for once.

I'm using it as my first ever competition entry and, without having read any of the other stories or knowing a single thing about the judge, I reckon it'sa cake-walk. Oh, if only life were that easy...

Looking at the stories I've been writing recently, both on here and in my trusty journal, it seems that I'm far more angst-driven than I ever realised. I wonder, will I ever write a comedy? [cue bated breath as the world waits for an answer]
 

I've managed another 600 words today, which by my standards is actually quite productive. I think Graham Greene only did 500 (though admittedly his words were rather better than mine).

I've also been reading Bukowski's "Ham on Rye"; how come I never heard of him until my late twenties?

I'm playing 6 aside football tonight, assuming I can muster up the energy. I can't help feeling I'm already passed my prime.
 

I've had the weekend from hell, stuck at work, chained to a computer doing someone else's paperwork, all the while trying to look after three bored and attention seeking tenants.

I need to get a move on with the bestseller. This is no life for a lazy person. Mind you,at least I don't have to work again until Friday. Not sure I'll even bother getting out of bed tomorrow. I reckon I deserve a lie-in.
 

I’ve just read an anonymous review for my Newbride story where the reviewer seemed to see it as some kind of Christian allegory. Given that I’m a former Buddhist-turned atheist, this came as something of a shock.

Maybe those old Sunday school lessons had more of an impact than I remember.

This has made me wonder how many stories I’ve misread over the years. Was Big Brother really a benign organisation, and Winston Smith a dangerous criminal? Maybe Mr Collins was a theological genius, misunderstood in his own time?

 

The trouble with having time off is that you suddenly have too much time, with no impetus to get anything done. Which is a shame, as I have a stack of paperwork to do by Saturday. It reminds me of the old Douglas Adams saying: "I love deadlines, especially the whooshing noise as they fly past."

I've been looking at NickiD89's conterst today. The picture prompt set me to thinking about an abused woman dealing with her dad's death. I'm a little worried about my imagination. I'm cheerful, it's sunny outside, Burnley FC are into the playoffs, and yet I still can't seem to come up with even vaguely cheerful to write about.

So it goes...