I’m in a terrible head space. I’ve read over my novel, and truth be told, comparing it to the writings of my classmates in the excellent Gotham Writer’s Workshop Mystery Writing II class with Greg Fallis, and I have realized with absolute and soul-sinking horror that the story is crap. Fully, wholly crap. I thought it was redeemable crap, but I see now there are a few flashes of brilliance and ever, ever, ever so many pages of dreck, utter dreck and dross. And something that smells like rotting seaweed.

I could so with a swig of something strongly alcoholic. Or several swigs. Or maybe even getting drunk totally and lying about weeping in the empty glass.

Arggh.

I knew I was having trouble writing the last bit for a reason. It’s because I write like an overworked horse and can’t drive a plot through a field without some real whipping.

Damn it.

So I’m updating the GPS I bought to replace my old one, and seriously considering a career in mute crafts. Maybe plastic canvas kleenex box covers or something more according to my talent level. Maybe I can learn to crochet toilet paper covers or do paint by numbers or macrame. All I know is that my brain seems like a wasteland of lost hopes at the moment.  Or aging horseflesh, just to keep the metaphor in the same harness, as it were.

Okay, I’m trying to calm myself here. Perhaps many other authors rewrite their entire novels from scratch. Perhaps most of them do. Maybe it’s not just me. Or maybe I should just junk this one and start with a new theory. Maybe short stories are where it’s at for me.

Or maybe I really am a talentless hack.

Egad. This means the rest of my life will have to be spent on crafts, volunteering, and exercise.

I’d rather die. If I can’t play in my head, I’m lost. I’ll gradually slide away to where my day’s highlight is who is patting the cat on Coronation Street.

Not that there’s anything WRONG with that.

It’s just not for me.

Okay. Panic over. Dread present. Fear in the back pocket, stabbing me with knives occasionally. Urge to break things large. Desire to poison all the good writers still hanging about. Shaking head. Moving to Scrivener. But first, a walk. Fast.