Today is the first day of National Novel Writing Month, a terrifying exercise where thousands of would-be writers attempt to write a complete novel during November. It rarely works out for me – although my great life aspiration is to be a novelist, I have a nasty habit of going back and destroying everything I write – but most years I at least give it a go. My record is 15,000 words. Pathetic, I know; hardly a short story, let alone a novel.

Still, today my cousin Sarah, a bona fide novelist who writes things and wins awards and stuff, has sent me hope in the form of John Green’s NAtional Finish A Draft Of Your Book I Mean Seriously Come On Month. This is something I can get behind.

Because of what I do for a living, I find it enormously difficult to write anything creative on the computer. I’ve therefore got a great big notebook and my fountain pen (a Parker; I have fierce brand loyalty) up in Edinburgh with me, and intend to scrawl like some kind of sub-literary demon. I’ll let you know how I get on.






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