I woke up this morning¹ with a thought rampaging around my head. Being quite alone, it made quite a lot of noise in there and try as I might, I couldn’t get it to shut up and I really really did need it to both shut up and get the fuck out of my head beause it wasn’t a helpful thought nor particularly useful. But it’s been lingering there all day.

It keeps whispering into the parts of my mind that only have meagre defences and are open to suggestion and persuasion. “Write a novel! Go on, you know you want to.” That’s how it started out. It’s learnt a couple of tricks from the part of my cerebellum that claims it can only survive and function with judicious application of alcoholic beverages - the cerebral function that always tells you that one is never enough and that you should go to the bar to get more right now. This morning it was one novel. Now it’s three. They’re multiplying like fucking rabbits. But the thing is… the thing is, right, that, well, I have thought about this before. You see, I’ve got this character about whom I’ve written a couple of short stories before. The recently absconded QE has read them and will know who I’m talking about and he’s even been complimentary about them although I don’t think they’re that good - a bit rushed and not very well thought out - but I like that character.

I miss that character.

I want to see more of that character.

I just don’t think I’ve got what it takes to, you know, take this idea through to the end.

26 Reasons Why I Can’t Actually Write A Novel

1. I don’t read enough. Books aren’t my thing - I watch films. When I do read a book it can hardly be called high literature and I tend to read the same ones over and over again. Apparently, if you want to write novels, you have to read a lot. Stephen King said that. It must be true.
2. NaNoWriMo is what? 50,000 words? That’s a lot of words and that can really only be considered a novella. I’ve never managed more than about 2000 words.
3. Proper authors are clever with words. They caress them and gently tease them and take them out to dinner and romance them before persuading them to take up a delectably erotic shape on the page. I’m not that couth and am more likely to get drunk and pick a fight with them.
4. I’ve got a screenplay I need to finish.
5. After that I’ve got another screenplay I want to do.
6. And I’ve got two - no, three short screenplays to revise.
7. And a day-job to not get sacked from.
8. And a family to feed and whisper sweet nothings to.
9. Everyone’s got a novel inside them. Except for me. I vomited it out to make room for more beer.
10. I mean, I can’t even get to the end of this list of 26 things - what makes me think I’m ever going to actually finish writing a novel?
11. For fuck’s sake - I don’t want to write a novel! I don’t do I? Do I?

Do I?

The idea’s there for not one but three stories. I can’t say they’re fully formed but I know the character and I know the sort of world he lives in and I know the way he tends to react to it (which isn’t hard because it generally involves finding the nearest bar and getting liver-poisoningly drunk and then inadvertantly getting into a fight with the biggest person in the room and his mates.)

But I’m not really a writer. I just have these ideas.

Bugger!

I’m sure it’s just displacement activity to try and stop me finishing my screenplay. Yes, that’s what it is. It’s the only thing it can be.

I wonder where those short stories are?

¹ 3am actually. Commonly known as Bloody-Silly-Idea-O-Clock