Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Yes, but who the fuck is driving?
This is book number six and why has no one thought to tell me the rules? I am once again flying by the seat of me drawers (stops for a minute to examine very stupid last statement and carries on regardless) and have been taken over by the mysterious hands which obviously don't belong to me.
I suppose it is not cool to admit that one is taken over by unseen forces but the fact of the matter is that my ghostly writer often writes crap and I have to start all over again. The hands are also not terribly good at spelling, much less editing anything as we (we?) go along but I have been wondering if I could pop off on holiday and leave them to it.
I have romantic thoughts that my 'ghost writer' might be Daphne. My solid reasoning tells me that Ms Du Maurier only lived a few miles away, she's dead, and she probably misses writing. Unfortunately my solid reasoning also informs me that I have not ever, to my knowledge cobbled together a sentence like "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again". I may have touched on "Last night I went down the chip shop" or possibly "Last night I dreamt of chocolate again" so maybe Daffers is resting in peace and has no interest in how my next chapter is going to shape up.
The fact is that my writing is increasingly becoming an out of body experience. Somewhere along the line I have got the engineers in and made a bypass around the headland. I should be embracing this thing but it scares me sometimes; traffic moves at an incredible speed and only just misses the road works and blocks. Without the head police in control I turn into a boy racer with a hatchback and an ear bursting stereo. It also bothers me that I never know where the current writing road is going much less who the fuck is driving.
Oh well, the next signpost says Chapter 13 - unlucky for some. Suppose I'll go and make some tea and wait until it's finished.