Alice and a Dog Called Dude

This is why I need a hand with discipline! Sure, I had a busy day lined up, but for God’s sake, it’s gone 2pm and only now am I literally forcing myself to write my morning pages. That’s just downright shameful. But perhaps this brings a much needed realisation. Perhaps this is one of the things I need to work out with R, namely how I go and find things to do – anything – in order to avoid writing. It only just dawned on me now that I wrote it and it frightens me a little.

I go and acquire all the tools I could possibly need to get that damn novel written – writer toolkits, how-to books, work books to help with anything from storyline to character creation, post-it notes and huge sheets of paper to map out the story, software specifically for writing novels – you name it, I’ve got it. Even this laptop that B got me for my birthday came with the encouraging words “to write your first book on”.

What’s going on here? What on earth is the problem?

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to write and to be an author. And I’ve always come up with stories, characters and things to write about. So what’s going on, now that I am finally in the coveted position of being able to go get my dream? I really can’t work this out. Like I said, it’s as if I’m avoiding writing. Actively avoiding it.

I’m thinking so hard it’s giving me a headache but can’t for the life of me work out why. Is it some subconscious fear of failing that’s stopping me? The worst case scenario is so awful I don’t even want to put it into words, but I will and here it is:

Is it that I’m not meant to be a writer after all? 

Holy crap, what if that’s the case? Surely otherwise, I’d be raring to go and be producing page after page, day after day? Shit! Is that it? No, can’t be. If that were the case, then I wouldn’t have been wanting this all my life. No, I refuse to even consider that scenario. But that means that the mystery is still there to solve. All the while Alice, my protagonist, remains on life support, which is pretty stupid as she wasn’t ill or had been in an accident in the first case. Alice is on life support because she is neglected. How on earth can she live unless I give her a life?

And that’s the stupidest thing of all! I know Alice’s life, so giving it to her should be pretty damn easy – I’ve spent countless hours dreaming up her childhood, teenage years and adult life. I know her inside out, from how she feels when she hears the sound of a garden hose and how she squints her eyes slightly when she’s thinking hard about something.

John! I know John too. In fact, I probably know John better than he could possibly know himself. Same thing with Karen, Tom, Stephen and even the messed up Monica. I know them all, I know their backgrounds, their likes and dislikes, their darkest secrets and deepest fears.


I will pay you £1000 if you tell me the answer. Sure, I have R to help me figure this out, this endless procrastination I’ve got going on.

Seriously, I will have to be a dog sitter for a living otherwise, rather than it being a fun thing to do occasionally for a bit of extra cash. Speaking of which, this weekend we are having a Mastiff called Dude to stay. He is just a big, lovable lump who likes to sleep all day, so not a running companion, but my son is suitably excited and I am giving him 10% of the money to be on poop-duty. That’s a relief, as Dude’s owner told me he takes enormous dumps.

Perhaps Dude can be in the novel? I could definitely give a very accurate account of his smell – I have washed my hands twice, really scrubbed, and I still reek of dog.


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