I have just printed off the fourth draft of my first-born novel. It is the first time I have printed it off in its entirety and am taking a few moments to admire and caress it, before starting the next rewrite.
It has been an arduous climb to almost being at the tip of the iceberg. Fuelled by obsession, an overwhelming need to relieve my burgeoning brain from its burden of carrying around 80,000 words of excess baggage for too many years.
Being so preoccupied with bringing my characters to life for the last two years, has sometimes made me lose grip on what is going on in real life. As the only family member who ‘works’ from home, there have been times when, the hunter gatherers have returned to the family fold at dusk, tired, hungry and asking the question …
‘What have you been doing all day?’
I do realise that beds don’t make themselves (mental note to speak to Mary Poppins), washing machines can’t load themselves and weeds, well … they just keep on growing (mental note to cut down on the Miracle Grow). And to be honest, the words cordon and bleu have never been in my vocabulary. My mother sent me to domestic science college and I was expelled before the end of the first term.
There have been those dark days too when my writer’s toolbox has been shrouded in fog. Those lost writing hours spent staring blankly at the computer screen, trying to squeeze 250 words out of my flagging brain, times when I have no excuse other than to do the housework.
Then there have been the glory days. Those sweet periods of time enveloped in a creative purple haze, when writing becomes all consuming, the words tripping off my fingertips effortlessly all day and all night, before drifting off to sleep at sunrise.
The end is in sight. But will my baby sink or swim?
“Write It, Work It, Publish”
― Cherry-Ann Carew,
How I wish it were that easy.