WORKING – WHO NEEDS IT?

Writing is a sickness, an ailment, an addiction. When I’m not writing, I’m thinking about what I have just written and, when I do go to bed, I lay sleeplessly thinking about what I am going to write when I get up and start again next day.

I have worked as a tutor, in marketing, and for a women’s magazine which involved writing captions for interiors and combat with photographers fixated on apertures. Regular working doesn’t suit me, it interferes with writing, and now I earn a crumb as a waitress, not in a restaurant, but at corporate ‘events’ where masters of the universe congratulate themselves by drinking buckets of champagne and falling over.

I have a gig Saturday and for now, I’m plonking away on a novel that may be called DESIRE, and will probably have the word DESIRE in the title. I’m not sure yet. I’ve only written 25,000 words, so I don’t need to worry about title for months. Writing is so slow, I wish I was a painter chucking paint as big stretched canvases and dancing to Rihanna  - check out this video, I love it.