Writing for a living can be a thoroughly unrewarding endeavour. You spend your early life longing for days spent constructing cities of prose from the raw materials in your mind but when it comes to it you’re left slapping up some flat-pack bullshit.
next time you’re washing your hands next to somebody cup your hands under the tap until the water overflows then look at them dramatically and say ‘this water is getting out of hand’ it’s a guaranteed way to make friends i have never tried it but it is guaranteed
I know it’s juvenile and stupid but if I don’t vent somewhere how angry I am right now I’m going to explode. I fucking hate her. I fucking hate him. And I’m a fucking idiot.
Fuck you and your fucking happiness. I hope he’s a cunt.
I could not be happier. Finishing things has long been a problem of mine so I’ve gained a great deal of confidence from finally finishing something that I’ve been thinking about for so long. I’m incredibly excited about what this means - with the finished script in my hands there’s now something to build a film around. Watch out world - I’m going to make a mess.
EDIT: I actually just cried a little. So very happy to have finished it. This is a big deal for me.