I forced myself to work on the novel today. As much as I wanted to lay a blanket out in the garden and fall asleep, I dragged myself to an air-conditioned cafe and wrote for two hours. It was drivel, but I felt better for having done it.
There’s little point in me moaning about how things aren’t turning out as I’d hoped. It’s all down to me and the one thing I want to do most is finish this novel. I avoid doing it because I hate what I write. The solution? I must stop watching junk TV and nourish myself with literature.
Poetry, novels, ramblings etc. I need to absorb words from people who are better at writing than I am. Even if I only get through a chapter a day. I only wish Love Island wasn’t about to start on Monday. It’s one of my favourite shows! Sometimes, I am astounded by my own shallowness.
My writing is getting better every day.