Back from Writing with Bleeding Stubs for fingers

Reports of the death of this blog have been greatly exaggerated. For the past month I have been using every waking moment to undergo the trial by fire that is NaNoWriMo.

I did not “win” – i failed to make the 50,000 word count – but it was a great discipline. I wrote close to every day, at least 500 words, sometimes as many as 2000. I wrote without any revisions, or even much re-reading – and no plan of where I was going other than seven chapter titles. By the end of the prologue I had protagonists. By the end of the first chapter I had parents and support characters and setting and workplaces.

So now I’m 25,000 into a new novel and will keep on going from here, trying to maintain this new practice. Normally I’m lucky to write a thousand words a week of my OPUS, the slow apprenticeship book with dual timelines, historical portent and depressingly, not much sales potential, that I’m still loving, but which is coming up on TEN years of work.

So this new book is a shot in the arm. It’s great to be writing something totally different. I had forgotten some things that happen to me when I write every day though.

Paranoia: I believe that people don’t like me, I have become annoying to all. They are wearing a mask of politeness, but everything I say is boring, or prideful, or rude. This causes me some anxiety. Perhaps its the karmic flipside of never getting the fear when I smoked maryjane.
Irritability: My children, husband, television, traffic and the little birdies singing in the trees are interrupting my train of thought. Go away. I can’t concentrate on anything but the book. You are in the way. When you are talking to me I am not really hearing you. Terminal vagueness.
Loss of hedonism: No time to enjoy food, reading, movies or sleeping. The bare two hours of child free time in the evening before bed is for writing. Which means poor A. has to do the cooking. ALL the cooking.

Writers are pains in the arse. I wouldn’t recommend us.

But I’m 25,000 words into of a final 70,000. So with a bit of luck I won’t be like this for too long. Really. It’s slightly galling to realise that a romantic story with a cynic’s edge, featuring lots of sex and GenX protagonists, set locally, is a far easier sell that my “serious” book. Oh well.

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