66791. That’s how many words I’ve written of this story and I’m not even finished part two.


Or at least it would be if I didn’t HATE MY FREAKIN’ MAIN CHARACTER.

Seriously. If I could kill the bitch now, I totally would. I don’t get her. I don’t even want to get her. I just want to kill her off and be done with all of the whining back story that comes with her.

Damn plot-device of a woman!

I know some of you who read this are also writers – what do you do when this happens? I say when this happens, presuming this happens to other people. It’s a fairly common theme when I write. I start off totally in love with a girl, thinking she’s going the be the single most awesome protagonist since Femshep, or Faith from Buffy or… or… hell, at this point, I’d settle for the girl from Bulletstorm (whose name I can’t even remember and who is only awesome because she’s voiced by Jennifer Hale). In the end, they all come out of the same cookie-cutter mould and I waste my time typing about a soft, mewling creature I wouldn’t pour hydrochloric acid on if she was on fire. Oh yeah, we’re long past the point of piss here. And yes, hydrochloric acid is flammable but the sheer effort involved in picking up the bottle, unscrewing the cap, tilting the bottle… Who even cares? I can’t even be bothered finishing the damn sentence.

Point is. Fuck her.

So I’m stuck. I have an amazing tale I want to tell and some wonderful people I want to talk about, but in order for any of it to happen, I need this girl to be there. I don’t want to go back to the start quite yet because when the editing begins, the story-telling stops and then I end up – like I have so many times before – with a half-finished pile of wank. Which for some reason is worse than ploughing more hours of my life into writing about someone I hate.

Urgh. Rant over.

You know what else really bugs me about her? Aside from the fact that I hate her – because feeling any emotion for a fictional character is good, right? – its that she’s so non-descript I don’t have any right to hate her. She is as devoid of meaningful personality as my Tupperware boxes. You know what? Even the Tupperware has been with me long enough for me to care more about it than her. Even the lint from the dryer has more meaning to it in that it used to be my favourite clothes. Even the child’s nappy leavings are preferable since they came from my child.

And I’m still here ranting.  I am using my evening – time in which I could be drinking – going on and on about how much I can’t stand her because my husband is so sick of hearing about it.

I really am done now. I promise.

If y’all care, I can post a tutorial about how to make cot duvet covers out of single bed sheets by sewing only 2 lines?