Day two and I’ve kept up my three hours’ writing, one hour’s reading. Two days. That’s got to count as a routine.
The scene I wrote last night for the novel moves the story in a new direction. It’s thrilling but, like a rollercoaster whizzing into a tunnel, I have no idea where it’s going. I’m not worried, though. Right now, my priority is refamiliarising myself with the act, the physical act, of writing. Getting stuff down on paper is more important than trifling concerns like plot and believability.
That said, during the day, I find myself slipping into reverie at regular intervals. Plot lines, character motivations, the ‘stitching’ of my story. These are the topics that occupy my brain as I cruise supermarket aisles or play with my son in the park or line up a putt (I’m not back in the full-time job until next week). As a writer, I reckon you’ve got to give yourself the room to think. Thinking’s good. But writing’s better.
As for that physical aspect to writing that I mention above, I really must do something about our loft room. That’s my designated writing space and I set out on this quest without recce-ing it beforehand. Only when I sat up there for the first time the other night did I realise how hot and airless it is. There’s no desk, either, so I have the choice of resting the laptop on a low chest of drawers with both legs wedged together on one side (or one each side but that’s not pretty) or sprawling on the bed to write. Both positions would give ergonomics experts heart attacks. Last night, I finished the evening propped on one arm on the bed with a fan about twelve inches away. The cold air blew into my face with such force that my eyeballs dried out.
Not all glamour, this writing lark.
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