The lager demons

We’re halfway through September, and I’m about 70 pages into the final edit. It’s odd working back through copy I wrote so long ago. It’s not me any more. I’m stripping out line after line, and it’s the better for it, but I’d never write this book again. I’ll be glad to get it out and move onto a new long project. My mental and practical priorities are so different now it’s difficult to believe I could be so self-absorbed. I don’t know how I ever found the time.

I think I’m pleased with what’s left. It’s impossible not to constantly doubt my own ability. Not settling for anything other than your best is very noble, but the elephant in the increasingly small room indicates that perhaps I’ll never be “good enough”. I read some of it and it excites me. Sometimes it’s just shit. Other times it makes me feel self-conscious, embarrassed of “Old Pat”. I’ve been straight for nearly eight years; I can’t undo what happened, and nor do I regret anything, but I sometimes look back on that period and struggle to understand why I thought the way I did. Old Pat isn’t in these pages, but his death is. Reading this again is like watching a child learn to walk; it’s pitiful.

But. Pathetic as it may be, it’s solid. And it’s hard. I’ll announce the name when I hit 100 pages. That should be in the next few days, assuming TGS doesn’t turn into something ridiculous overnight, and then I’m going to get Eurogamer Expo out of the way and push on it.

I want it done.


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