I managed to squeeze out 300 words yesterday. I seem to be in the midst of some kind of confidence crisis. When I started out on this writing I was filled with confidence that my life would be fascinating and hilarious. Somewhere along the way doubt crept in.
If I'm very honest, Christmas has been nagging at me a little bit too.
Last Christmas was a difficult time, and in a funny way set the stage for me baring my soul in a book. Not that I've been published yet mind, so how about: it set the stage for me writing a book.
A similar thing happened yesterday morning, and I fought it, I tossed and turned until my bed sheets became knotted balls of wide awake. Looking back on it I regretted not getting up and writing. It seems that the wee small hours suit me. Don't worry, I'm as surprised by this as you are.
So just now, when I awoke, much too early, I padded into the kitchen, made myself a coffee and here we are.
It's been a couple of days since I put pen to paper, or in my case, put my fingers on the keyboard. I had a gig on Sunday doing some red-carpet interviews with my sister Stephii https://twitter.com/thundercvnt who is other most interesting Drag performer in Wellington.
Looking at that word count, and it's not all about word count, but looking at it; I was really sure I was a whole lot closer to 10,000.
I had another day off writing yesterday. I hit some painful stuff while writing and (in capital letters) I was having a stressful time with my day job. The guilty there know who they are and that's all I need to say about it.
I've read enough gay autobiographies to know I'm not the first poofter in the history of the 20th century to become enraptured with goddesses of the silver screen. Or in my case, the phosphorous cathode ray tube. And again, all that cash I dropped on therapy doesn't really give any answers.