At what point does a rambling fragment of writing become the basis of a novel?
For no explicable reason I woke up at 5AM last Friday and began writing. Four writing days later I have about 30 pages of a text. There’s repetition, over-use of adverbs, and enough bad pronoun references to give my old tutor, Jane Resh Thomas, a caniption.
To be honest I think the whole thing was clutching at straws on Friday morning, but on Friday night I went to see A SINGLE MAN, the Tom Ford/ Colin Firth flick based on the eponymous Christopher Isherwood book. Much of the movie was narrated by Firth using Isherwood’s text.
It’s funny how a few well-chosen sentences can re-kindle your love of words, especially when they’re delivered by Colin Firth.
Obviously I’m not claiming that the quality of my own prose bears any resemblance whatsoever to that of Isherwood’s.
I am a camera
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