Everything is prepared for me to write. Washing on, dishwasher done, coffee made, desk tidied, my list of what I like in a novel pinned definantly to my wall.
I am behind on my wordcount.
And I have reached the end of the bits I’d planned out. Now, I only really know some vague notions of what I want to show before about December in my novel, which is about 10,000 words away.
My characters are in Birmingham – much easier ot write about, and as my fingers skim the keys I briefly describe the canal, easily; the description reads well.
I try some dialogue. If I know what I want to say dialogue is fine as I am sure you have seen.
I don’t know what to say.
My characters ask each other about their days.
I delete it.
What do MindReader and I talk about?
I suddenly have no idea, and my cheeks and the bridge of my nose heat up quickly as I step briefly away from the laptop.
What if – genetically, truthfully – I just don’t have the talent?