Don't bother

And just like that, back to the day job. Hopefully (and I say this with everything crossed including a few internal organs which is very, very painful but shows my utter commitment to this being true), this is going to be the last one for a while, but it's only one week in and already I'm hiding the sharp knives. I don't have a clue how people do this for their entire lives. Really. I don't get it. If someone wants to explain it to me, then ... actually, don't bother. I'll find the sharp knives I've hidden faster than you can convince me that being here until I shuffle off to the retirement home is a good thing.

Have to go. File something. Look like I’m working while trying to figure out Scene Three of my new play. Googling writers who are more productive than I am and beating myself up for not being more like them. File something else. Try and kill myself with a papercut from my filing. Walk around the block while convincing myself that death by papercut is not the way I should go. Practice my smile when someone calls playwriting 'a wonderful hobby'. Some combination of the above. Welcome to my days.

Random

1. I almost got sprung doing something bad this morning, but I was swift with my coverup and got away with it.
   

   
    

2. I wrote 27 pages yesterday in some sort of public holiday frenzy. Everything I write now, I can't stop thinking 'Is this too much like New Light Shine?' and then I have to tell myself 'Fuck it."
   

   Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it …
   

   
    

3. I have too many books. Please, let no more bookchains go down the gurgler. I can't afford any more sales.
   

   
    

4. I started writing a novel. And then I started writing more of it.
   

   
    

5. I haven't written as much today. 8 pages on one thing, and a 4 page play about pills. It's a random sort of day.
   

   
    

6. I'm thinking of buying a dog with my prize money.
   

Dreams

You know, when I'm at the soul sucking day job, all I dream about is the hours and hours I'm going to have for myself when I'm at home writing. I see myself sitting at my desk just churning out page after page of incredible, awe-inspiring dialogue. The truth is … well, I sit at my desk, and at some point usually about the time the sun goes down, I think it's probably time to get out of my pyjamas – or at least wash my face and I look at the pages that I have written and call them every name under the sun and usually put them into a file that I then go into the backyard and bury so they will never see the light of day EVER AGAIN. Then I start drinking. Yep. Living the dream.