“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
With New Year intentions often to write a novel in a year, or in some cases a month, this is a good time to consider what’s so bloody great about being a writer. I do wonder if some people get writing confused with reading. One is a strangely magical experience, which tingles otherwise untouched parts of you, like sausage rolls but without the guilt. The other is the challenge of typing whilst simultaneously wringing your hands and swearing quietly.
Perhaps it’s despair at such sudden disappearance of Yule Logs from the shops after Christmas that drives people into the collective arms of writing groups, or perhaps it’s just to emulate all those fantastic books read during the holidays. But don’t be rash, those rather delicious afternoons with nothing to do but…
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