Sick Day

So, I think it's about bloody time I actually wrote about writing, seeing as the writing process is the reason I started this blog in the first place. I will likely be up half the night, having slept for three hours late this afternoon, so I might as well do something productive with the time. I was off work today. I took an impromptu holiday yesterday to enjoy the crisp air and breathtaking scenery of autumn. I love autumn. Truth be told I was feeling a little sorry for myself. Not exactly sure why; things are good, but every once in a while we all need a completely self-indulgent day to feel unabashedly sorry for ourselves and nurture our souls. Yesterday was that day. The boss was away, my work was caught up, for the most part, and our office was closed for the morning, so it seemed like a great day for a holiday.

Today is, emphatically, not a holiday. Today is punishment for the wanton hedonism of yesterday. Today I feel like some sadistic bastard is continually snapping elastic bands against the soft, fleshy part at the back of my palate prompting me to swallow what feels like a stew of thumb tacks, gravel and wet sand in a rich, thick gravy of snot and battery acid. Thank God for tea. I was well into the second pot by ten o'clock this morning.

There are certain things you discover while hunkered down with a blanket on the couch on sick days that you would never get the opportunity to discover otherwise. For example, the floor of the Rachael Ray show actually revolves so that the audience doesn't have to move when the focus of the show changes. So if you are an exceptionally lazy person looking for free entertainment while on holiday in NYC, get tickets to the Rachael Ray show. Also, tea molecules duplicate themselves inside the body. I'm not a scientist, so I'm not entirely sure if this is true, but it would explain the fact that for every two pots of tea I consumed, I peed four. Anyway, enough about the hideous sore throat day. It feels a whole lot better now after drinking enough tea to float a cruise ship, a cup of chicken bouillon and a spoonful of grainy vanilla ice cream that really should have been thrown out weeks, if not months, ago.

Tonight I am writing. I foolishly sent the first three chapters of my manuscript off to an agent before it was finished and received the rejection slip last month. The first draft has been finished for ages and I thought sending it off prematurely would force me to finish it completely. I won't do that again. The entire time it was away I was terrified that the agent might want to see the rest of it and I'd have to send an email to the effect of 'Thank you for your interest, Splendid Agent. Unfortunately I am a putz of mammoth proportion and have only a shoddy second draft riddled with holes to show you. Please hang in there. I will send the rest in due course. Sincerely, Arsehole.' Now that I have been rejected I am going to take the time to finish it properly before taking the plunge again. My stomach can't take the stress of potentially looking like an idiot to an agent who has taken the time to request a full manuscript.

I'm having a bit of a hard time trying to put the bits and pieces together. I don't write sequentially so I have to put it all together after I've written vignettes. The problems come when the vignettes contradict each other or when I inadvertently leave little holes in the plot here and there. Now I am filling the holes. It's difficult to get into a rhythm when you're just filling holes. Although I suppose it might be easier if I'd buckle down and get on with it. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to make one more cup of tea then buckle down and get on with it. Goodnight.