Damn, damn, damn

It's been the second day in a row during which I have got absolutely nothing done on my novel, and I'm in a particularly bad mood - feelings of desolation and self hatred abound. I'm half-way through a book I picked up at a little 2nd hand place - V.S. Naipaul's The Enigma of Arrival.

Maybe today I had my first twinge of doubt about what I'm doing. It's not a question of whether I have the sensibility or the talent, or anything so high-minded. Its just a question of whether I have the self-discipline to write something as big and scary as a novel. I'm spending my days walking around London, taking in the sights, drinking coffee in coffee shops - not writing. I go home (look, I just called the house where I dossing 'home') and talk to Carley and James - and I do not write.

Tomorrow I will definitely write. Also, I think once I'm done with a book I'll post a review of it. Reading has always been such a component part of writing for me, a means of inspiration and of hope, and I think it will be relevent to share with you what I reading, as well as what I'm (not) writing.

Tomorrow, hopefully, will be a less black day.

Til then.