March 5th 2015
Today is World Book Day, or as it’s sometimes stylised, #WorldBookDay.
Instead of celebrating it by reading and sharing books and novels from Mr favourite authors. I was narcissistic and read my own.
And, to be honest, I hated it. I could barely make my way through it. I found myself disgusted by some of it, it was cliched and rushed and poorly written in parts. I stumble over sentences far too much and the story could’ve been written just as well in half as many chapters.
I didn’t enjoy it. It was worse than I remember. I’ve not read it cover to cover in a while. (it doesn’t even have a cover, I read it as a PDF on the iBooks app on my phone) I know good writing, and that wasn’t it. Or maybe I’m being harsh on myself I don’t know. But on a day that celebrates great, and powerful and profound writing I realised that what I just read was none of those three.
The good news is that I proved to myself I can write a novel. A full one. A novel is a great deal more than these 3-500 word blog posts, but I finished one. I just really don’t think it’s any good.
I don’t know where to go from here, because everything I currently am, and want, and need depends on the fact that I think I can make it as a writer. And that hasn’t changed, but I don’t think it’s going to be that book that gets me there.
Until tomorrow, the next one will be the one.