Write on...

So Edinburgh has completely inspired me and I decide that I want to write plays and films and books and shit.

In order to write I can't work so I've taken today (Tuesday) and tomorrow off, to live for two days as a novelist or author would.

Of course things haven't gone quite to plan.

I've decided my first book is going to be a thriller.

In the States in the 80s a dossier used to be passed between county police services which gave details of so-called "crimes of the occult" so that other forces could be on alert if, say, Aunt Ethel's black cat was found skinned alive.

My idea is that people who've read the contents of the file keep turning up dead. I've kinda worked out why and it's got nothing to do with evil spirits or rubbish like that.

Anyway, that's the premise but everytime I write down a sequence or try to imagine a nerve-shredding situation I end up scaring myself because I'm all alone.

To take my mind off the fact that I have just frightened myself I have to go and do something else.

Thus far today I've:
Washed some vases in the dishwasher
Re-arranged the lounge
Watched Disc 2 of the second series of Kath & Kim
Tried to re-arrange the CDs in alphabetical order but got bored after Duran Duran
Wandered to the Sainsbury's three times

On the third visit look what turns up to bloody haunt me, hogging the entire bloody diary aisle. I wonder what they'd do if I decided to drive my car in to collect half a pint of milk and some bread. So why is she allowed to do it?

So I'm finding this author lifestyle very difficult. When trying to hone my craft I keep ending up making myself petrified and then can't work so get bored and do other things.

I wander if all crap writers have immaculately clean houses?

Maybe I should start with a children's novel. Or try to write down a few words to describe just what I'd like to do to him:

Argh! And so it continues because now I think it's time for a 10-minute break for porn.

Spunk you later...