The Hay Festival pretty much took up all my writing time over the weekend, but was totally worth it as it stimulated my desire to push ahead with this. Imagine my surprise when Shashi Tharoor, he of nearly 1 million Twooster followers and one of the main reasons why the fest came to Kerala in the first place, retweeted the link to my article about it. Several other kind folks did the same. I am not worthy.
Then yesterday I was all excited about interacting with all my new followers, so I didn’t write anything then, either.
Today I took myself out to the cliff to sit and write for a bit. Got about 1600 words done, some of it passable, most of it just blahblahblahblah etc… it felt good to get going again, but this sore throat, weeping eyes and growing fever kind of killed the buzz. Do real novelists crack on even when they feel like shit?
A little excerpt to finish, and a promise to write more and more and not give up on this.
i even know exactly what he’s going to say. it’ll take two or three minutes, tops. i’ll knock three times, he’ll call me in, i’ll enter and say excuse the interruption, he’ll ask me to sit. all of this will be in very polite language from him, and exceedingly polite language from me. he’ll ask me how things are going for me here. i’ll tell him things are going quite well but i can always do better. he’ll say that some of the staff told him that i left early on Friday (this could be just a cover so it doesn’t seem like he’s insulting me personally, it could be that nobody said anything at all.) i WON’T say a word about the office finishing time being 5 o’clock and that i left at 5:10 and this whole institution of overtime in this company is completely ridiculous and fuck you i don’t have to take this. i WILL say yes, i did leave early, there is really no excuse, i am very sorry.