We’re renovating at the moment and that means we have 5, sometimes 6 builders inside smashing, hammering, crashing and banging; my little dog is far from impressed. Scout (the dog) is sprouting her own phobia of men in yellow fluro work shirts and she’s keen to tell everyone about it too: think crash, hammer, bark. I have enough dust inside to start a storm and enough floor polish stink in my eyes to look constantly hung-over. I shouldn’t grizzle – I know – but I am anyway.
Despite all of the above, I’ve just finished writing my romantic thriller. I have no idea if it is editable/salvageable or a piece of float-sum that would be best set adrift. So far, only my mum’s read it – and her comments weren’t pretty. Never mind. It’s as I always say: your mum’s your toughest critic – especially if it’s horror that you’re forcing her to read. I know I should shelve the story, for long lonely months, then pull it out and see my glaring errors through clear eyes. That’s what I should do. But that’s not what’s going to happen.
Every time I write something, I’m tempted to send it off to Kate at Escape in the minuscule hope that she, with her mighty Harlequin muscle, will say ‘yes please.’ Mmmm – still dreaming. What will really happen will be something like this: Kate will diligently write back and tell me what is wrong with the story. Her criticism will be brutal (should qualify that and say that all criticism is brutal for me) but it will also be the most valuable criticism I will ever get.
I’ll keep you posted.