An early finish of 2pm from work is an extremely satisfying feeling. Conversely sitting here knowing I have a full day at work tomorrow is uncomfortable to say the least. I have Sunday off, but the only reason is that I specifically said I was unavailable. I may not be a Christian, but I firmly believe Sunday is the day of rest. Saturday too. A weekend is called a weekend for a reason. It’s pretty self explanatory so I won’t milk it. Regardless, my point is I find it demeaning and humiliating to have to work weekends against my will. It would be nice to be asked; “would you mind working the occasional shift at the weekend if it’s not too much of a disruption to your life,” and not “you have to work weekends cos it’s when we are busiest. Don’t like it? Don’t care.” Fuck this I want my life back; boo hoo, moan moan, whiney whiney whine whine, etc.
Well, I’d better do something about it, hadn’t I? Here’s my plan. Buy 14 million lottery tickets, one for each possible combination of numbers, starting at 1-2-3-4-5-6 and ending with 44-45-46-47-48-49. That way whatever number shows up on the draw, I can’t fail to win this Saturday’s £4.4m* jackpot. Woohoo! The plan is fool-proof; and then it’s on to a life of foot massages, pedicures, £150 jumpers and magazine subscriptions. Electric gates, off-road parking, imported beer and biannual holidays. Silk suits, tailored shoes, top hat and tails. Guinness and oysters, pie and mash, jellied eels, barbecued ribs and New York personal shoppers. I want this and that; two of those, all of those, that but in that colour, and is that one of a kind? Make me a second. Now.
Failing that (ever the pessimist; I even consider the failures of a dead cert winning plan) I might have to work for my fortunes. What is the going rate per word on the black market? No idea; random guess pulled from the ether (or my arse; whichever is nearest), 0.05p... Who knows, it’s as good a guess as any. Besides no one is paying and I’m just making this shit up, so I could have chosen any number. In fact why not? The going rate is £50 a word. Saying that each blog post has been approximately 600 words, times 134 posts, equals 80,400 words. (Bloody hell, that’s a novel!) Times that by the high valued £50 a word I’ve conjured, gives me a comfortable £4,020,000. Should keep me in tinned reindeer meat, fur coats and ivory back-scratchers for a year or two.
So in this blog I’ve matched the standard word count for a novel in just the last three months? Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Have I shown myself what I can do if I put my mind to it, or have I shown that not all writing is worthwhile? Perhaps I have been working hard, but working stupid. If I had put in all this misguided effort into developing characters, plot, intrigue, other worlds... I would have a finished novel that I could begin pimping around the agents and publishers; casting out my line and reeling in old boots and rusty wheels in the form of rejection slips. Until one morning, downtrodden and defeated, I feebly cast my line one last time... what’s this pulling... a bite? A bite! In comes the call, we want to publish your book, and we guarantee you will be one of the tiny percent of published authors that makes enough money to stave off death for a few years... woohoo, it’s all I ever wanted.
The almost one thousand words I wrote a couple of days ago was actually really good. The problem is I’m a bit scared to write any more in case it’s shit and I ruin what I’ve already got. As far as hurdles go, that one is pretty pathetic; pull yourself together, stop complaining. OK, mate, calm down; I’m just venting, thinking aloud, getting it all out. Five hundred to a thousand words of novel a day and I could be finished in no time. OK, I’ll do it; challenge accepted! Right, I’d better get started... now.... now.... now.... now....