Morning all. Sorry I haven’t been around for a while – I know you’ve been sobbing into your porridge – but things all got a bit out of hand, here, for a minute. And with a bit of luck, they still are.
No, hang on, I’m not supposed to hope that, am I, let alone say it. Discipline, Hells, that’s the key! And I meant well, I really did:
1. Rise early (comparatively)
3. Sell self/book by as-yet unidentified means
4. Slot in time for healthy exercise
5. Write next book.
But there’s the rub. No.5 grabbed me by the throat and refused to let go.
I’d forgotten how addictive it is. I guess it’s like childbirth. Not that that’s addictive (fortunately), but you think you remember what it was like, and realise as you’re sucked into the vortex that memory is a very pale imitation of the truth. Yesterday was Sunday all day, believe it or not, and in the odd moment when I managed to cycle back to Friday, Sunday’s tentacles wormed their way through the convolutions of my brain waving words and phrases and shouting ideas. How could I possibly ignore them? Even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. That’s the thing about addiction. It’s addictive.
This is a book I started writing about 12 months ago, got to about 30,000 words and drove head-first into a brick wall. My usual problem: saggy midriff. Not enough guts to bolster the middle. Tell the story too fast, pad too little. Obstacles, my son tells me. That’s what I need. And somewhere in the last 12 months, my subconscious has come up with a cornucopia of goodies just begging to be added to the mix.
So now it’s hard to drag myself away from Their lives, and find something even vaguely sensible to say about my own: what I’m doing, thinking, living, breathing… I’m wallowing in the piggy-mud happiness of writing, and even if it turns out to be unmitigated rubbish, my fervent hope is that I won’t be stopping anytime soon.