Today was not a remotely creative day, I'm sad to report. It was extremely painful and mostly involved my forehead on the desk. I decided that rather than achieve anything, I would throw a sulk, and spend my time reading that fascinating story about the paedophile book Amazon were selling. And the weather is miserable, and I'm tired, and oh you know, the trillion other excuses we invent to validate our own laziness. On the up side, I met my word count - just. And, like all the other irritable writers out there who vowed to themselves that this would be the year, I'm still going.
Funnily enough, the book I'm reading - A portrait of the artist as a young man by James Joyce, is proving very apt. It's a load of mildly entertaining, sporadic drivel. Where he too, has seemingly put pen to paper and written for thirty days. What I'm saying is - we probably won't need to edit our own illegible ramblings. They'll appear as perfectly formed post-modernism, and we can just, in the way of Joyce, get published with high acclaim. Hurrah!
So don't worry; your sacrificing a month of your life, but you're going to be famous.
Week two, cue delusion
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