Okay, the novel is finished. Sort of.
The last few weeks have been a blur of activity including the obligatory trip to OfficeWorks to have the title of your manuscript scrutinised by a pimply geek with a lisp, the last minute panic as you realise you've forgotten to give the final chapter a title, confusion over where the change in tense happens, the increasingly annoyed family members who suffer through the obsessive tunnel-vision of final manuscript preparation, and the ignominy of carrying five copies of the manuscript in a sudden shower (what the hell are those water restrictions for again?).
So blogging has been low on the priorities. I have my final set of notes ready to scan when I can be arsed to do so. The thing is, I'm kind of bummed. I'm dissatisfied with the big picture stuff — the way the story hangs. At this (completely subjective) vantage, the whole thing seems like little more than neatly strung together bits of random crap. I was kind of going for a random feel, although preferably without the crap part.
This is why everyone says you should stick your manuscript in a drawer for a while before you prepare it for submission. You need time to see the manuscript with a clear head.
Yeah well, some of us don't have that time. Some of us need to submit a manuscript with a completely muddled head.
It's entirely likely that this is just the rambling of a tired writer, sick to death of his own creation, and (it must be said) sick of being a bloody writer for the moment. I've spent the last week catching up on an old friend called television.
Couch potatodom is a welcome relief. It's like living an old cheesy sit com clip show.