Writing rubbish

This week hasn’t started well so I’m hoping it improves.  Like so very many others, I’m writing a novel, and like so very many others, I have the usual convinced I can do it/plagued by self doubt see saw.  Valuable writing time is grabbed in a cafe along with a junk lunch most days (the guaranteed table and swift service is the draw).  According to God himself (aka Stephen King, on writing at least), this should encourage the muse to show up.  She’s been a sulky bitch this week, standing me up whilst I sit there writing lines upon lines of drivel.  And deleting and rewriting. 

Still, with some of the rubbish out and off the page now, perhaps something better will appear.  Going to the Proms last night with Regular Phil*and listening to the little short of angelic violin playing of Hilary Hahn, I hope may help.

*A pseudonym.  Obviously.

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