If words were beans you could feed the whole world with the words I’ve expended in writing this novel.
You could paper the walls of houses up and down the length and breadth of England with the drafts I’ve printed out and chucked away.
If you stood all my sentences end to end they would stretch to the moon.
if you broke them all up into letters you’d need a Scrabble bag the size of Russia to hold them.
And yet… and yet… and yet…
I still haven’t finished it.
That word haunts me. Still. As in: ‘You’re not still writing that novel, are you?’
Another favourite is yet. As in: ‘Haven’t you finished that book yet?’
When I’m queen we shall outlaw ‘still’ and ‘yet’ in all public discourse on the subject of printed works and their nearness to completion and/or the duration of time thus far expended with the purpose of completing said printed work.
We shall, in addition, outlaw the asking of these questions by all persons not sufficiently, themselves, acquainted with said process.
When I’m queen, those persons who, personally, have no prior, personal experience of the production of a printed work of novel-icular length, shall be disallowed from the raising of eyebrows when
excuses are made responses are given. Any and all persons encountered by the person encountering Herculean labours in novel-icular service shall select from the list 7(b) to be found in Appendix 12(f), titled: Soothing Statements. Under no circumstances should comparisons ever be drawn with rocket science or coal mining. In such cases (as indeed sanctioned by the Pope himself) a punch in the face may be forthcoming.
To speak plainly…
I think I may have stuffed up my novel.
Gulp. (And other four letter words.)
So, yes, I am still writing my novel and, no, I haven’t finished yet. Soothing Statements gratefully received.