I don't know why I'm painting instead of writing. All week long I've been plotting - yes I know I never plot. Regardless, the work's been going well on my new novel and I'm ready to begin. But for some reason I just can't start. It feels as if I've never done it before. Maybe the meteor(ite) is a subconscious way of warning myself; but of what I have no idea.
I decided not to begin a new genre but stick to what I love - humour, or at least my version of it.
I wasn't amused last night when I decided, after wading through the knee deep grass on my front lawn, to cut it, as they who supposedly know about that stuff, predicted that it would be dry on Friday. About half way through it began to rain early, not good when one is using an electric lawnmower. Luckily I finished before being fried alive. The next thing to do is what I've been promising myself since last September, which is to wash my motorbikes, or at least the pathetic versions of bikes that I now possess.
Is all this another way of deferring my writing? It might be. I've just discovered a living mass growing inside the garage. I'd better eradicate it before it eats the cats. It's not even as if I have the dreaded block. I know exactly what's going to happen, for the first half a dozen chapters, anyway. But as in the last time I plotted a novel about twenty five years ago, it will probably be nothing like I envisaged it. That's what I've always loved about writing - the uncertainty of it. Hmmm, I think I'll dump all the plotting and begin with a word, then see what happens.
Sorted.
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