I am feeling rather out of sorts today. I don't really know why either. I am having mega-mega problems with the second book which is what started it all off and I have, for the last 48 hours felt completely surplus to the world; as if I don't belong here. Nobody really needs me; they only think they do, so just what is the purpose of my being?
If you'd have seen me Sunday night, you'd have probably laughed! It must have looked incredibly funny as I sat in the study working on the second book. Ball after ball of paper piled up in and around the bin. I kept leaning back, exasperated, in my chair, head in hands. Then I'd stoop forward again, scribble a few words, cross them out, scribble a few more, cross them out, then, finally, another paper missile would whistle in the general direction of the bin in the corner. After three self-destructing hours I stormed out of the study, slamming the door, shouted at Cat because she almost tripped me up at the top of the stairs, skulked in the living room, shouted at Cat for trying to reach the tiniest corner in the house again. I was a horrible, soul-destroyed, stereo-typical writing diva, so it was lucky Hubby was working. Lucky for him.
Lucky for the whole world really, the mood I was in! Cat and I have made up now, of course.
She has the patience of a saint with her unpredictable mistress.
The weird thing is that I simply cannot blame my hormones for this mood. I was one of the lucky few to never suffer PMT and I haven't had a hot flush in weeks and weeks, now. So it's purely artistic temperament that turns me from happy-go-lucky-the-world-is-my-oyster writer to Incredible Skulk in ten seconds flat.
Sensible Inner Me knows this will pass and that the second book will be brilliant because of it. But riding the storm in the mean time is pretty rough. I can definitely feel a Chocolate fix coming on!
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