I’ve hit a strange crossroads. Part of me wants to write something new, but the stuff I’m churning out feels like a series of detached scenes. The narrative drive isn’t there. I have a notion where I want to take it, but I’m still getting to know the characters.
What a close-to-perfect week the Fanning clan had in a remote French farmhouse, miles from the nearest shops with no Internet, no phones and no English language TV – we watched the French version of Wheel of Fortune twice and didn’t quite get why a small white dog was part of the proceedings.
Sorry for the lack of diary entries, been in a bit of a creative slump and didn’t have the spark to write much, busy dealing with the rejection letters from agents who you suspect haven’t even read your work – particular Kudos to the agency who shall remain nameless who said that thrillers were not really her genre – in response to ‘Help’ and the other one who had their very junior assistant reply on their behalf that stories about serial killers were not really her thing – well I’m with her on that.
January is always the month to sit back and look shocked as your waistline joins forces with your wallet to reap revenge for the indignities you’ve made both suffer in the name of ‘having a good time’. Despite all my very good intentions and to the best of my knowledge, having had a pretty lousy Christmas, my bank balance is indeed shrinking in direct proportion to my increasing girth.