I've had a heavy weekend. Friday night with Book Editor Numero Uno and last night with Tres. Copious amounts of red wine were consumed and I'm now suffering from the latest hangover side affect to rear its ugly head - the post drink depression.
This never used to happen to me. I'd sometimes have a bit of a headache and maybe a bit sick but depression...
It's always in these dark moments I decide it'll be a great idea to read my book.
That'll cheer me up, I thought today as I stopped at a service station on the way home for a sneaky Starbucks. Turns out, it didn't.
Not only did it not work in enhancing my mood but it also left me questioning why I've spent so bloody long writing this pile of shit. Honestly, today it just seemed...bad.
After sending a sorrowful text to Uno and an apologetic one to Tres (she only received the book last night), I drained the rest of my coffee and indulged myself in some sad music for the rest of the drive home and let my thoughts spin out of control.
Who do you think you're kidding?
You'll never get published
What a waste of time
Why did you have to share it with your friends? Now you've made them feel awkward
They hate it
I walked into the flat I share with Dos, my tail firmly clamped between my legs.
"My book's shit and I feel fat," I mumbled as I hung up my coat.
"Oh, get over yourself," Dos rolled his eyes and carried on playing his guitar.
I stuck out my bottom lip and glanced at my phone to see a text from Uno:
Shut up. You're a crack head.
I laughed. I can always rely on my Editors to bring me back down to earth.
Dread to think what Tres will have to say...