So. It’s like this.

I have something like 70 writing hours left before my self-imposed deadline of the end of the month in which to finish the Frenchman’s story. That’s about 1.1 pages an hour. Every moment counts. I need to finish this story, and finish it to my own goals.

The geraniums and bacopa that should have gone into the hanging baskets a month ago are still growing leggy and limp on my windowsill. If a dinner takes longer than twenty minutes to cook, I ain’t cookin’ it. TV is out. Reading is minimal. Husband is long-suffering. Pippi thinks longingly of the days when Mummy brushed her fluffy coat once a week… Husband thinks longingly of the days when Wifey brushed– *cough*. Never mind.

This being the case, can someone explain to me why I wrote the first two pages of a new story today? Hmmm?

Okay, so it’s the story of one of the secondaries in the Frenchman’s story – not so bad. It’s set locally so I haven’t got Realistic Setting Angst to deal with. It has (so far) a light an uncomplicated plot – the Holy Grail! But… it’s not the book I’m supposed to be working on! Argh!

Actually, it’s not so bad. It’s a good sign. When I hit that last third of a book, the next idea usually elbows its way into the queue and starts tapping me on the shoulder. It means I’m about to accelerate into that mad rush of completion.

Bring it on.

Orange Kitkats

Orange Kitkats. Orange bloody Kitkats. HOW am I supposed to lose weight when some bright spark has decided to buy orange Kitkats for the work tuck shop? No, no, NO!

But they’re so loooooooooovelyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Feelin’ the burn

I wrote last night. Not expecting to, not having planned to – the weekend was dedicated to Husband and to equal parts fun and housework. But I managed ten pages at the end of the day.

That, of itself, was an achievement, but it wasn’t the best bit. No. The best bit was how it felt.

Because I was feeling what the characters were feeling. Emily, the heroine, was scared for her life and I was shaking. Tristan, the French hero, was bitterly angry* and my every muscle was tight with it. They were wildly angry, and I burned with it.

That’s when I love writing. When the emotion is in me, and the words move through me. It’s liberating, energising, even healing.

Of course, it can go too far. My heroine is missing the little finger on her right hand, which makes hitting the full stop and ‘p’ keys somewhat challenging in her POV…

*In one paragraph I managed to use “bitter” and similar words like bite, twist, sharp and bit about ten times. This will change, but at least I can be sure what he was feeling… *rolling eyes*

The rather nice farmer who’s our neighbour popped round today. And somewhere in the midst of chatting about trees, hay making, roof repairs and septic tanks, he said, “so you’re writing books?”

“Er, yes,” I said, following up with the disclaimer that I wasn’t published or anything. Then: “How on earth did you know that?”

Apparently one of his daughters had read an article about a writing group I belong to in a regional paper’s glossy periodical. The article featured each of six members of the group in turn, with our photos, romantic inspirations, and what we’re working on.

He stood there in his check shirt and cow-dunged wellies nodding and grinning while I explained about the writing group, and the workshop we’re organising. “Arr,” he said, and I braced myself for a teasing comment about writing ‘fluff’. “So we’re going to be living next to someone famous!” he said, obviously delighted with the notion.

Well, I’m working on it.

Breakfast in garden. Nodding columbines the colour of custard and strawberry jam. Galleried lupins, stately and bright. More columbines like miniature powder puffs dipped in puce eyeshadow. Spreading hostas. Shamelessly scarlet lillies and the sage bushes in flower. Sweet-scented mint, cammomile underfoot and swallows dog-fighting for mosquitoes overhead.

Writing.

I can’t do a pretty description for this one. Let’s just say it was hell. I was scowling a the computer so much my forehead aches…

But I wrote 7 pages.

That will do nicely.

Little Goal – to eat breakfast outside in the front garden surrounded by flowers and sunshine instead of inside at the computer surrounded by clutter and Things To Do.

Big Goal – to write five pages this evening after work.

I’ll let you know how I do…

I made a mistake on holiday. Actually, I made the mistake long before.

I expected the holiday to magic away the funk I’ve been in for some time.

Ooops.

I do have a bad habit of refusing to own my own moods. I don’t blame others for them (thank GOD), but I do wait for outside factors to ‘make me feel better’.

The effect of this is that periodically I live my life in a level of breath-held suspension, waiting for some thing, some happening, to make it all better.

I’ll feel better when we get a bit more sunshine. When I have a swim. When work calms down. When I’ve had a break…

Hmmm.

But I am responsible for how I feel, and I’m responsible for a) learning to live with it and b) changing it.

Lunch? What lunch? Whose lunch? Your lunch?

*Pause, licking lips*

Well, you should have put the lid on properly, then.

Lunch Thief