Work is keeping my mind off of what I have to do tomorrow. The only way I have to describe how I’m feeling at the moment would be ‘anti-Christmas’, a feeling of such revulsion, an absence of any sentimentality or comfort so profound that I am fighting an urge to redact this book from the canon. It’s not the first time I’ve debated doing that to The Wanderer, both the book and the character. But, there is ugliness to life, real and fictional, and making my peace with my demons is the only way I’ll overcome them. It’s been, a while, since a book was one of mine.
There are 1,400 words already typed up of the story, and I have some 7,000~ in a journal at my flat I am about to collect. With the success of TFS as a book skipping the handwritten step, I have decided to move over almost entirely to this. The one known exception to this will be The Way Out, which I’ve owned the journal for since about 2015, and want to hand write so that my core trilogy all has that treatment. In a similar vein, The End of the Line if I can find the right journal will get the same process. Who knows what my mindset will be by then though. It’s possible I’ll decide after TWO – abbreviation not the number – I don’t want to do any handwritten books anymore.
I guess we’ll see. Even the walk to collect this wretched journal is filling me with anxiety. I guess to anyone outside my head that will sound silly. After all, why have such rancid feelings towards a book I haven’t even written yet? Guess all I can say to that, is a story doesn’t have to be ‘written down’ to exist, and to eat into you.