It’s not going well. Since December I’ve written just over 3,000 words. Make that 6,000 – I edit as I go. Which is already 17,000 words less than what I should have written by now. And none of them have anything remotely to do with the novel. And all of them are rubbish. I am rubbish at writing and also living up to my own expectations. I thought the MA course would spur me on and give impetus to the novel writing but the novel writing has ceased. Now I am writing short stories and reading literary theory. And everything I am writing is rubbish. Did I mention that? Literary theory is making me feel totally unworthy and out of my depth. All this talk about lexical cohesions and modality is making me doubt myself. I don’t even understand half of it. And yet I’ve just shelled out another £20 odd quid on a book called, The Language of Metaphor. I bet Dickens didn’t have to worry about this when he was penning his masterpieces. Well actually Dickens might have, because people knew about grammar then didn’ they? Not like now. I have Margaret Thatcher and John Major to blame for this lapse of confidence. If I’d have learnt about ellipsis when I was eight, I might not be feeling so useless. I know I need to snap out of this because I have two deadlines looming. But I feel like I’m in a hole. No amount of reading other peoples books is helping. Even moaning about it on this blog isn’t helping. I need to get me groove back – but how?