Fox on a Boat

Thursday may be the new Friday, but Sunday remains plain old Sunday. I suppose I have a bit of a problem with Sundays. They feel a bit like visiting older relatives when you are a child, when you're bored and the day drags on and there are only a few biscuits to snack on.. Yes some of my childhood was like that. I was very keen on tea-time ( le quatre heures ), and hence I hated the days I couldn't get one, and, on top of that, had nothing to do. I usually ended up reading a book I had already read many times before. Sundays kind of feel like that to me. I want something to happen, I want to do things, but I usually sit around doing nothing and feeling bad about it, whilst the clock ticks forward and the feeling mounts. Isn't it weird how after about 1 pm, the day feels finished? Then, some Sundays, things happen, and it feels like visiting old relatives, but your cousins are there too, and you get up to all sorts of tricks and feel sad to leave. This is why I am not a...

I am not a writer. Let me explain. I've always loved writing, but I'm not a *writer*, I had fantasies as a kid that I would write a book. No less. In fact I told everyone I'd be an author when I grew up. It is well known that growing up also involves killing dreams. I am not a writer, and do not have a novel in me, I simply do not have a story to tell. I wanted to be wrong, I really did. This November I set out to do Na-No-Wri-Mo: National Novel Writing Month. It sounds rather simple: write 50,000 words in a month. New material, do not continue on a previous novel. I did not have a previous novel to be working on anyway, so I did start fresh. Well I am 36,000 words in and this novel is complete literary trash, no kidding. I have a sort of plot, rather vague and boring, the subplots are mundane if not nonexistent, I add lots of unnecessary description to feel as if my novel is growing, but quite honestly, it's just not. It's bits of writing here in there, hardly any ...