a while back i mentioned i was going to attempt the national novel writing month challenge of writing a novel of at least 50 thousand words duting the month of november.
like many others on the challenge i hit the 50k mark (with just moments to spare) while not actually finishing the tale.
how good is? i hear you ask.
utter fucking tripe i reply. total pants, if i am being honest - about as good as a liberal democrat promise.
yet i have to say i am pleased with it.
it makes no sense, it was done on the hoof. no planning, just making it up as i went along - so it started out in one genre and ended up being a completely different genre. it is clunky, moments of absolute horrid writing that if i had read it in a book i had bought would have me throwing the book across the room crying in a mix of laughter and despair.
so why am i pleased with it. i had forgotten how much fun it was to write, there are some ideas in it that i might be able to work up into something worthwhile.
for now i think i shall have to bash out a few short stories, just to keep my hand in.
don't worry i'll still be boring you silly on here as well.