On crappy chick lit!
So. National Novel Writing Month starts in two days and I am beginning to wonder what I have signed myself up for.
We are moving to suburbia on NOVEMBER THE FIRST so I will:
1. Pack.
2. Move house.
3. Unpack.
4. Write 1,667 words.
Don’t even get me started on not having the energy to pack/unpack/sit in the car and THE GUILT that MindReader will have to do it all himself.
So. Yes. And also, sometimes I think, well I have a plot, so I will just write it.
And then my inner-angster says WRITING A NOVEL? MAKING THINGS UP AND NOT JUST MOANING ABOUT YOUR LIFE ON YOUR BLOG?
And then I remember that I once wrote a story about a girl who got locked in a room and then remember she had the key. THE END. Yes!
But THEN, I read crap chick lit like this:
“Who the hell knows?”
“Who the hell cares?” and they both smile at one another, somehow each knowing that this is more than just coincidence, that they were somehow fated to meet this afternoon, and that this will be the start of an important friendship.
… And I think, if bloody Jane Green can be published, then so can I.
- Posted in: Uncategorized
