Posted by: miss cellany | March 7, 2006


Sometimes you just don’t want to do it. You’re too cold. The space you sit in is too damn cold and your shoulders hunch over and your fingers are almost numb as they patter over the keypad. Patter patter. You sniff and fetch another cup of something. Tea, more tea. It’s beginning to fur up on your teeth and make you jittery but you drink it anyway.

then back to the work.


back to the work.
tweak a bit here, tweak a bit there. change this bit, change that bit. god, you want to change all of it. you want to rip it all out. You don’t even dare think how many years hard grind, hard graft this represents. Sometimes you take swathes away. Simply swathes, cut out of the body, and you tell yourself that the body is stronger for it. And you pace around and

burn your mouth, and think about how the thing SHOULD be, how it shouldn’t be this sloppy thing after so long. You should stop telling yourself it’s so sloppy. It has isolated fantastic parts and a lot of other parts which are not. Which need attention. Full attention. Each sodding sentence needs microsurgery




  1. I don’t like working under pressure, whether writing a story or music. I distinctly recall doing an all-nighter in the electronic music suite and it got to 3.30am and I still had 5 minutes of space I had to fill. That was truly awful. I was sort of pedantic but also fatalistic which is a stupid mind frame in that situation.

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