Drunk. Sober. Write? Wrong.


Started at five. Moved onto six. Broke through the seven. Now dancing past eight. My night owl is soaring at the moment. Sleeping times are on their head. Night is now day. At least the book is being churned out. Churn on. Cave-like lifestyle. Living in and running around my head.¬†Which I’ve realised has resulted in me sporadically zipping between two different kind of moods. Frustrated. Pumped. At times annoyed. Other times delighted. Over and over. Finally the penny dropped. Depending on the event or story or whatever I’m re-writing about, that emotion builds up and kicks in, inside my head. Which makes writing any good story a great laugh to do. And makes me highly frustrated after writing a frustrating story. Strangely, I am now living vicariously, through, my, self? Continue Reading »