We have 6 inches of snow outside and it is still snowing! Even the birds are sitting huddled together scratching their heads. The dawn chorus has had a gagging order placed on it and not a single bird is daring to tweet – the bird kind – not the Twitter kind, obviously.
The conifer outside the kitchen window is banging its arm-like branches on the frozen ground, admitting defeat, as the snow goes in for a headlock, the weight of it holding the conifer down hard. I fear that its back will break. Good old English weather.
It is truly beautiful. No doubt about it. But ‘please – stop snowing!’
I am at a loss for words today, other than blathering on about the weather. Strange but true. I think the reason being I have just spent the last two hours writing and have used up all available? I have been struggling now for several months to ‘get into’ my new novel and the silly thing is I don’t know why? I know the plot from start, to middle, to end – I just can’t write it.
I have stared at the screen time after time determined to write something and each time I have failed miserably. I thought for a while that it was because I hadn’t taken the time to get to ‘know’ my characters, after all, why should fictional characters be any different to real characters. It takes time to get to know real people, right? Or was it that I didn’t like my characters. If I didn’t like them it was of little interest to me what they did – again just like real life.
It seemed to me that the best plan was to have no plan, so I side-lined it. I told myself that I didn’t have to write another novel. That I could sit all day on Facebook and Twitter. What did I have to prove? I’ve already written two novels and a short story compilation, sod it, I didn’t need to write anything else, ever again, if I didn’t want to. What did it matter that all ‘works’ were sitting on some virtual shelf with me doing sod all on a daily basis to sell them or to move forwards. Don’t shout at me, sunshine. I’ve done it. I’m the all-conquering, all-singing hero. I can sit on my laurels and do nothing if I want to. But that’s just it you see – I’m not like that. I can’t sit-a-spell and smell the roses (not much chance of that with all this snow!) so it didn’t really surprise me that I did eventually rise Phoenix-like from the ashes and get a grip. I’d been trotting around like a headless chicken, direction-less – well you would without a head wouldn’t you? – and purposeless.
I don’t know what happened. I guess I had just taken enough time out? Healed? Maybe that’s what we need to do. If we have an injury our bodies deliver pain and our tiny brains think, ‘Ouch that hurts, I’ll send messages to the idiot to rest a while.’ So why do we think that forcing ourselves to write is the way to go? Obviously something is saying, ‘You’re burnt out, dude, rest a while.’
I have now, with the help of one of the most helpful human beings on the planet, sent Starfish to Feedaread to put into paperback. That will be both of my novels in that form and in Ebook form.
And I have chopped, cut, altered, destroyed and reshaped The Sleeping Field and I am now back on track.
I am a fortunate person who, through the hand of misfortune rendering me with two slipped neck discs, has all the time in the world to stand back and smell the frozen roses. Richard applies no pressure whatsoever. If I’m happy writing all day – he is happy for me to sit writing all day. If the loo isn’t bleached on a daily basis he doesn’t throw a wobbly – well he can’t really because he is the one who fouls it! If I say I’ve decided not to cook he has a cheese sandwich. My only true commitments on a daily basis are the chucks and Chea because they can’t attend to their own needs. So I have no reason, commitment wise, for not finding the time to write.
The only problem with this is that when I get into a novel I rarely come up for air. When I’m not writing I’m thinking. Last night we ate our meal in front of the TV watching The Chase and Richard was saying something. I had to say to him, ‘Can you not talk to me until I say so because I’m thinking about my book.’ He smiled, wearily I think, and went back to his badly cooked scampi and the question being asked on The Chase which he eventually answered wrong.
Take care my lovelies x
PS It’s still snowing!