The new regime starts tomorrow. It's going to be all early mornings, to-do lists posted in prominent places, noteboards, cold showers and hot coffee, two hours of writing before it's time to head to the day job, deadlines met and goals achieved, keeping the flat tidy, moving onwards and upwards and meeting positive cliches head on and rising above this that and the other. Two blogs a day until I am entirely up-to-date, two hours on the novel a day (getting the first three chapters drafted in the next week, and a further 50,000 written over the course of November as part of NaNoWriMo), and writing a short story every weekend for submission to competitions/prizes/etc. Now I'm off to shoot myself gently in the face.
Left, ..., left, ...., left, right, left. Left, ..., left, ...., left, right, left. Left, ..., left, ...., left, right, left. Left, ..., left, ...., left, right, left. Just keep writing; no talking, no listening, no moving, shouting or rocking. No hibernating, mating, gyrating or palpitating. Just writing. From now until the novel is finished in draft. Then the first three chapters must be re-, re, and re-drafted to the point of perfection, precision and publishability. The I will write a damn good synopsis and a writer's biography/CV which makes me out to be interesting and talented (everyone lies on a CV, don't they?), find the agents/publishers I think might be interested (after finding out exactly what I'm supposed to do with my manuscript... agent or publisher...? what do I do...?), write them personal and polite cover letters, and send the whole thing off. Then start work on polishing the remaining chapters of the story.
Some publisher or whatever will come along with a pile of money which they will throw at me and ask me to finish the novel. When it's done they'll throw more money at me, publish it, more money with each regular royalty cheque, repeatedly, each cheque for more and more, then the book will win a major prize (not the Booker; a decent one... only teasing, I'd be happy with a Booker) or will be in Richard & Judy's book club, then the movie offers will come flooding in and my evil master plan will be complete. My evil master plan to develop my writing to the point where I am doing it well and being paid for my work, mwha-ha-ha-ha, I am so evilous. Then I will be so awesome, and I will be smiling all the way up the street and back again.
So the regime starts tomorrow. I'm not saying it will be a perfectly smooth transition from inconsistency and apathy into militant mechanical production, creativity and innovation; but if I don't start now, and don't get fucking cracking, the evil masterplan will never produce those big fat fruity plan-fruits to feed my family. Synchronise watches.
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