Didn't try write anything on November 3rd. My time was taken watching US Election Coverage then feeling depressed about US election coverage. Throughout all of the experience I keep thinking the same thing 'Why did John Kerry let people know he spoke French?'. OK, him dressing up in Woodland Camo and shooting ducks for a photo opportunity was an understandable, if cringe making, exercise in reaching out to the redneck male, but the French thing? That alone lost him a couple of million votes. Coupled with the oh-so-convenient Bin Laden video on Friday and he was toast; as will a lot of innocent people shortly be around the World. George Bush can now get back to sowing hydra's teeth in a dozen far flung places. Raytheon and McDonnell Douglas and all the others can look forward to decades of continuing business for multi-billion dollar systems; for use on orphaned teenagers armed with explosive satchels. Marvellous.
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Anyway, the novel thing. On the Fourth Day God created the Sun and the Stars. I didn't do so well and jotted down another spastic 1,000 words. This just isn't working.
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I set out to write a piece that would communicate something about the human condition. I just cannot achieve that in a novel format. In communication I prefer to be direct and ironic. The essence of all novels is to be long-winded and pompous. 'What I'm saying is soooooo important'. That's just not my thang.
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All novels, yes all novels, are written to convey the following message:
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Life is hard
Life is hard
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and, either
and, either
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It's worth it
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It's worth it
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or
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It's not worth it
It's not worth it
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The hardness comes from adversity, oppression, sickness, loss, other people. The worth it comes from love, beauty and a sense of purpose. The not worth it comes from a belief in the essential wickedness of mankind and a pointless God-less eternity.
The hardness comes from adversity, oppression, sickness, loss, other people. The worth it comes from love, beauty and a sense of purpose. The not worth it comes from a belief in the essential wickedness of mankind and a pointless God-less eternity.
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The rest is padding. Novel's are for adolescent teens. Thinking adults know, consciously or subconsciously, that The Reaper is waiting patiently at the end of the corridor, possibly reading a novel, and that life is too short to read waffle.
The rest is padding. Novel's are for adolescent teens. Thinking adults know, consciously or subconsciously, that The Reaper is waiting patiently at the end of the corridor, possibly reading a novel, and that life is too short to read waffle.
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So, I will almost certainly soon pack in my current efforts and start writing a yarn rather than a novel. Maybe I won't have enough time to complete my 50,000 word deadline for the end of November but at least if I'm going to write crap it will be entertaining crap. I will try to come up with something non-formulaic. A story that features hundreds of demented ninjas abseiling from the ceiling of a huge cave, the rediscovery of a long-forgotten secret and lots and lots of shagging.
So, I will almost certainly soon pack in my current efforts and start writing a yarn rather than a novel. Maybe I won't have enough time to complete my 50,000 word deadline for the end of November but at least if I'm going to write crap it will be entertaining crap. I will try to come up with something non-formulaic. A story that features hundreds of demented ninjas abseiling from the ceiling of a huge cave, the rediscovery of a long-forgotten secret and lots and lots of shagging.
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In the meantime, I think I'll visit a large cemetery, take photographs and contemplate eternity.
In the meantime, I think I'll visit a large cemetery, take photographs and contemplate eternity.
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