Confidence was taking a good kicking this afternoon. He was lying on the floor, clutching his stomach and spitting out blood. Paranoia was giggling like a school girl in the first flushes of a crush.
(Aside – I’m not entirely sure why I refer to my confidence and paranoia as males. It just seems natural – does that say something about my psyche? Was I meant to be a man? Whatever the truth is, I’m not having the operation. I like my lady-bits too much.)
I didn’t, in fact, getting any work done today. Not much, anyway. I wrote about 600 words. Not good enough. Confidence curled up even more and started to whimper. Poor Confidence.
I went to work (not my real work, just the place I go to earn money to pay the bills) and forgot to take any reading material. It worked out quite well because I ended up writing two really good scenes to slot in, nearer the beginning of the novel. I was – and still am – quite pleased with them.
Confidence began to unfurl from his poor state whilst Paranoia wasn’t looking.