by SJ Griffin
I’ve almost finished my final draft. I am really, really behind schedule which has caused the freezing, life threatening weather in America. And also the floods in the UK. I suspect this awful fact is also responsible for the Russian, Indian and Australian governments’ homophobic hatred. I can only apologise. I guess. It’s hard being extremely important to the world order. I’m like a butterfly in Yucatan beating my wings, oblivious.
Anyway, I am at that point where I can’t remember how to spell the names of any of the characters, or what order things happen in, or even why any of the things happen in the first place. This could be why so many things, like TV shows for example, end up being a terrible dream, because that’s honestly what they feel like. A terrible, terrible, never-ending dream where giant squid made out of lava and rotten spaghetti chase you down the street, wielding chicken shish kebabs as a Justin Beiber album plays backwards from the windows of skyscrapers that seems to melt into the orange sky.
This point in the process exactly mirrors the point at the end of the first draft where I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off putting the draft on the table and burning the whole house down just to make sure that it’s definitely gone. Still, I shall persevere. Now I have almost finished the trilogy is seemed perverse to pack it in. Like stopping a marathon at 25 and a half miles.
It’s a shame that squid thing doesn’t happen in my book. I might go back and put that in. Right before the bit with the exploding purple marmoset.