Paranoia is stood on my shoulder right at this minute. “Okay, okay,” he’s saying. “You’ve had your fun. It’s time to stop being an idiot now. It’s time to realise that you are not in fact, any good.” Paranoia is quite loud today, pounding through my head like a migraine, tap tap tapping at my temples.
Confidence, bless him, is trying his best. He is flicking Paranoia’s earlobe, his tongue stuck out and his face screwed up in concentration. He isn’t, however, reassuring me much at all today. He throws in the odd “it’s funny stuff” and the random “everyone who has read it has loved it” every now and again but mostly he is quiet. I think he is punishing me for being hung-over. Confidence doesn’t like my hangover. He says it distracts me from the task at hand (i.e. typing up the edits to the second draft). He is right, of course.
Perhaps, Paranoia whispers, this whole writing lark, this whole belief that I can do it, is some sort of mutated flu-virus, just like Confidence and Paranoia are for Lister in that episode of Red Dwarf. Perhaps he is right, we’ll see. I’ll keep plodding along all the same.