Tuesday 27 November 2018

What do I do now?


Oh my goodness, it’s nearly the end of November and I’ve nearly finished my book! When I say book I really mean the 50,000 words I signed up to write at the start of November - #NaNoWriMo. It’s only flipping worked - I’m nearing the end of the book and I’ve written 48,340 words! Of course, as I haven’t been editing as I’ve gone along (as per the instructions, I’d never have been able to write that much if I’d worried about little things like plot and syntax) I don’t know whether the book will actually be any good or not but I’m feeling very attached to it. I like my likeable characters, am irked by the irksome ones, am slightly besotted with the love interest. In short, I’m going to really miss it when it’s finished. What am I going to do with myself now? Because all that time I was spending writing was time when I wasn’t worrying about what needed to be done for my daughter’s impending birthday or for Christmas. I wasn’t stressing about who had spoken to me sharply that day and whether I was going to chalk it down to experience or hold a grudge against them forever. While I was working on my lovely book, I didn’t think about how much weight I’d put on or how much money I’d spent on new clothes. Come to think about it, when I was writing I wasn’t splashing out on a load of shite I probably didn’t need, either. Most significantly, I was also holding back any feelings of loss and grief which have been a massive feature of this year.
So I think we can safely say that I was using writing as a form of escapism, in the same way that I’ve always used reading as escapism. I think that’s why I detest book snobbery, because books have always provided solace for me, so who is anyone else to dictate what you should be reading or what books have merit.

When I first embarked on NaNoWriMo I told a couple of people that I thought it would be good for me - motivationally speaking, as I always do my homework. (Perhaps I am a people pleaser after all, although I’m reluctant to admit it) The writing never felt like a chore though, I loved it! It was so liberating just to be instructed to write, write and write, without worrying about editing, the most important thing was to get the words down. Every now and again I’d stop and think - does this look right? Does this feel authentic? Then I’d skip on, telling myself, it didn’t matter, it’ll all come right in the edits.


  • I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it but I had a short story published in an anthology, this year. Between you and me, I think I’ve always had somewhat unrealistic expectations about being published. I never expected unheralded riches, but perhaps I thought I would feel something profound. But when I tell you what I expected to feel, perhaps you will see why I was always set up for disappointment. *Whispers* I think I expected to feel valued, appreciated, accepted, yikes, loved even.  It really pains me to admit this. I saw a comedian at the weekend and he showed us (the audience) a picture of him standing with two other smiling comedians.

“Look at us - we’ve all got the same eyes.” He quipped. “We’re saying - ‘Love us, love us, please love us!.”
I laughed in recognition. It was great to be congratulated on being published, far less great to read some of the harsh reviews. My brother, who studied psychology, told me once that some psychologist said that all Art was an expression of mental illness. This stayed with me. I was fully prepared to accept that I was mentally ill. Nowadays I feel that perhaps it’s less about being sick and more about being heard, though.

Friends, I’m worried about what the actual flip I am going to do when I finish this book.  I’ve set myself the rule that I won’t look at it again until the New Year, so I can look at it with ‘fresh eyes’ and begin the onerous task of pulling it to pieces, salvaging the best bits, making sure the research adds up - editing it! But I loved writing it. And, I don’t want to think about Christmas and all the things I have to do. Neither do I want want to acknowledge the nascent depression, that has been flapping its greasy wings in my face for over a year, threatening to grab hold of me and plunge me down into the abyss. What am I supposed to do now? Write another book you say, ah, OK then!

Friday 9 November 2018

November motivation


Good morning, Reader,

I can't stay for long, I'm supposed to be writing a novel. On the one hand I'm wildly motivated and enthused, on the other I fear that I'm going to emerge from my cave at the end of November, covered in hair. I'm talking about a thick layer of stinking, matted hair! I'm having to wear noise cancelling headphones and ignore the children to try and meet my word count. It's making me even more insular than normal. I had to drag myself out for a fireworks display at the school last night and I felt quite fearful.

Another thing I'm supposed to be doing is cleaning, this is not something on the top of my list, I can tell you, but my house is mired in, what I like to think of as Bohemian squalor. I have this weird dichotomy between hating housework and resenting the fact that the bulk of it falls to me, and fearing germs. I can't afford a cleaner and a massive dose of liberal conscience would probably prevent me getting one even if I could afford it. So why hasn't anyone invented an affordable robot cleaner yet? I'm deadly serious here, why haven't they? Alexa, clean my house! I think I'd have a male robot cleaner called Sven. I'd program him to make me tea and ask me about my day, maybe we could have some light conversation about the works of Agatha Christie and the best places to go to for afternoon tea. I would talk to him for ages and say  “Stop me if I'm boring you.” And he'd say “Oh, you could never bore me, friend!” Perhaps I could program him to do the school run as well. Oops, I'm starting to get a bit of a crush on Sven.

Anyway, why am I rambling on in this manner? Am I just stopping by to say 'hi’ and keeping you from your day?
It occurs to me that I sometimes advocate things without actually doing them myself, for instance, exercise. I still do a lot of walking, that hasn't changed, but I've been told that it isn't enough (enough for who? Dunno, the health police I suppose). If I say that I'm going to do it here, on this blog, then it acts as a binding, legal contract. So, first off, yoga. I used to do it, quite enjoyed it, felt the benefit. And I'm going to start doing it again, at least 3 times a week.

If I don't stick to it I give you permission to take away my chocolate.

While we're here, I need to have written 50,000 words by the end of this month. NaNoWriMo. I started on the 1st November and have 16,000 words now, so am roughly on target, if I do my 1,666 words today. If I don't complete this task, you can have my beloved, illustrated copy of Pride and Prejudice.

So, we've entered into the contract now. If you like, we could do an exchange and I can come round to yours and kick you until you sign up for that skydiving course you've always been meaning to do. What do you say?
Go Ape: the most challenging thing I've done this year