Regard, with deep distaste, novel requiring rewriting.

Desk, nearby clothesbasket, and floor entirely covered in notes from critique group, and own random scribblings. Peer at piece of paper suspect was written in moment of apparent inspiration just before falling asleep, and try to work out what meant by: Wall e.g. poisoned! What H cane for? Links w' M!!!

Wish when inspiration arrived, would do so in slightly more coherent form. Feel like priest in ancient times trying to interpret drug-fuelled ramblings of Oracle, with King hovering and likely to be extremely and probably lethally displeased if interpretation not to his liking. Admittedly, this being Modern Times, no one likely to cut own head off if rewrite a disaster, but might well end up wishing they would.

Cannot remember why felt so optimistic after critique group when in fact novel is still utter shambles. Protagonist not only shallow and unbelievable but weeps constantly, inspiring in self nothing so much as desire to give her a good slap. Really not what intended readers to feel about her, poor child. In fact all characters suffering from shallowness and lack of appeal, and only likeable one in entire thing dies, thus providing single point of emotional impact in entire misbegotten wreck.

Plot which seemed to make sense while being written is in fact disconnected and pointless, with huge gaping logic-hole at center that cannot believe missed first time around. Also novel still far too long, despite recent slash-and-burn rewrite policy, and now plot makes even less sense as have somehow managed to hack away vital connective tissue along with extraneous fat. Have done liposuction on own novel, and, as is apparently often case with real liposuction, have ended up not with lean toned narrative, but bruised and injured mess.

Wonder to self why anyone would have liposuction when far simpler, cheaper, and less damaging just to eat less and go for occasional walk, but perhaps am cynical. In fact, know damn well I am.

Just wish could rewrite novel by eating less and going for walks. Am aware going for walks in fact often recommended as part of writing process, however, having sworn will spend day on rewrite, do not dare leave house, as know perfectly well would merely be form of avoidance, the which have been practicing far too often already. Would probably end up walking to John o' Groats. Would be found standing at extreme end of landscape, desperately looking for small spit of land upon which could walk just a bit further before being forced to turn around, go home, and face novel.

Also am all too aware of siren song of shiny new novel waiting in wings; or, not to mix metaphor, on handy sea-lashed rock. Have already started work on same, and words flowing with astonishing ease by comparison with Evil Mess Novel of Hell, but know perfectly well should be concentrating on Evil Mess.

What is it about new work? Wonder if other writers have same problem; thing haven't finished first draft of always more appealing than thing in need of polishing. Perhaps is effect of modern, instant-gratification, throw-it-away-and-buy-a-new-one society. Never mind tarnished, dented, older work, concentrate on nice dewy one with new-story smell and price-tag still attached.

Hmm. Perhaps can blame reluctance to finish rewrite on Decline of Modern something-or-other; after all, according to all media and large proportion of own acquaintance, entire planet is going down pan at speed, with gloopy flushing sound, and Times We Live In are worst times ever. Perhaps could write article, or even thesis, about effect of decadent, disintegrating, throwaway society on writers. Could rush whole thing out in a week and fling at publishers entirely unedited, as way of proving point…

But unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) do not believe these are Worst Times Ever. Admittedly many things could do with improvement, but from own point of view Modern Times a definite plus. Apart from advantage of not having head cut off if displease King, in most previous eras self would undoubtedly have been endlessly pregnant whether wanted to or not, not to mention rot-toothed and burned at stake, possibly all at once.

Could, indeed, regard human society as ongoing attempt at improvement, much like Evil Mess Novel of Hell. After all, feel, currently, as though EMNoH has taken most of human history to write.  However, as with society, can only, in all honesty, keep going, attempt to improve whatever is within one's capabilities to improve, and keep believing that even if result is never entirely perfect, whole thing will end up slightly better than might otherwise have been.

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com.  Visit PlotMedics at http://www.plotmedics.com.

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