Jazz riches

I’m still trying to get on with the blasted novel, over which I have been procrastinating for several years now. Though there are occasional exhilarating hours when it proceeds apace, there are others when I sit at my desk, drinking cold coffee and smoking roll-ups, when I conclude that, on balance and all things considered, I’d rather slash my wrists than try to write another bloody word.

Never believe anyone who says they love writing. It’s mostly horrible. After 30 years on the job, I still think I’m going to be found out with every review I write, still feel the terror of what was once the blank piece of paper and is now the blank computer screen. And with a novel, the horrors are multiplied a hundredfold. Actually, since my reviews are usually 600 words in length and the novel — if I ever finish the bugger — is likely to be about 110,000 words, the horrors are multiplied by a factor of 183.3 (recurring) — always assuming I’ve got my sums right.

As you’ll gather, playing with the calculator is one of the many distractions available that enables one to delay the evil moment of actually trying to write something. Other delaying tactics include loading the washing-up machine (all those mugs of coffee), emptying and polishing the ashtray to a pristine shine before filling it up all over again, and stroking the cat for longer than he actually enjoys. This last activity often results in a vicious scratch, compounding one’s feelings of loneliness and self-pity.

The best distraction of all, however, is music. I find it impossible to write with music playing, even if it is only on quietly in the background. But when the going gets tough and my head is throbbing, I treat myself to half an hour off, sitting in my armchair and listening to jazz.