To keep or to kill ...

To make it really interesting, I guess I should set up some goals for myself.

And a desk. In a quiet space. And clean my room!

Who do I actually want to write for? It’s not really a question I’ve ever asked myself. I usually just lie in bed at night and imagine my acceptance speech after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature (or world peace – because my book, of course is that good!) (Can you wear tulle to these things, like the Oscars? It doesn’t matter I guess, because my shoes are fucking brilliant.)

I’d like to thank the fairy godmother for writing this book, because I sure as hell didn’t do it myself!
That’s what I should be saying. I’ve never actually imagined my real imaginary speech though, because I very early on get fixated on the brilliance of my green d’orsay Manolo Blahnik pumps!

So clearly, I want to write a novel. I have actually written one – an entire manuscript, that is – but it would seem that, though my friend and sister had kind words to say about it, the publishing world was not all embracing (as my self-indulgent daydreaming predicted). Nor were my parents, who received their bound copy with much enthusiasm, before discarding it in the back room, where all things immaterial go to die.

So, not a good manuscript, it would seem.

But what do you do with fifty-five thousand words that no one wants to read? It’s fifty thousand words!!! The English language is a brilliant, provoking, insightful, inspired thing – I must have managed to string some sentences together that encapsulate these qualities.

I know I did!

To copy (and destroy) the words of my idol:

To rework, or not to rework – that is the question!