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Monday
The weather is lousy. Lashing rain outside and my in tray is overflowing again. Damn, how come paperwork piles up like that? Where does it all come from? Why do so many people demand so much of my time? It’s going to take all day. Okay, after much deliberation, I’ll take the day off from writing and wade through it. Can’t write anyway with all this junk in my head. Got to clear the mess, tidy the cupboards, wash the dishes, and wipe off the grimy rings round the bath. How come my head gets into such a mess? When was the last time I missed a days’ writing? Guilt mixes with frustration. But I plough through the paperwork and get it sorted. I’ve just time for something to eat before rushing off to jujitsu.
Tuesday
Found a second hand washing machine in an ad and went off to look at it in a village forty odd miles away. Horrendous weather, but I made the journey. Life’s no fun when your laundry basket is full and you’ve no clean underwear.
The washing machine looks okay, but time is racing on eh. I should be writing. The screen is on, Word is open, I can see the page. I put my fingers to the keyboard, but my arms slump to my side. My brain is not happy.
The pressure is intense. My head’s swimming. Pressure. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. Okay, I’ll lie down just for a minute. Two hours pass before I wake up. Oh no, I’ve not done any writing yet. It’s early evening, time to make dinner. Maybe I’ll just let it slip for today.
‘No you won’t dickhead, have something to eat and get your writing done.’
‘It’s not my fault I fell asleep.’
‘You set your goals, you MUST keep them.’
‘What’s missing one day?’
‘It’s two days now.’
‘So?’
‘Five hundred words, that’s the minimum daily target you’ve set yourself. You have to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you want to be a writer or not?’
That ended the argument. After dinner I switched on the computer and started typing. Somehow my mind fell into the story and I got there. What a relief. Let’s hope tomorrow is better eh.
Wednesday
Why can’t I write? What’s the matter with me? What am I doing? Sitting here, day after day, week after week, year after year – for what? Six years now and still no publishing deal. Why do I bother? Maybe I’ll never be published. Maybe I’m just some loser with his head up his butt, dreaming about the impossible. Look at me, I can’t even afford a new washing machine; I’m out scrounging cheap second hand rubbish.
I can see the words on the screen but I’m not in there. I’m not in the story. I don’t even want to be. How can I write under this kind of pressure? Everywhere I go life is fighting me. Why can’t it just let up for once? Okay, you’ve got fifty words down, get the next fifty out. Job and knock, once you reach 500 words, you’re out of here. But it’s all garbage! Just write, idiot!
I check the word counter for the twentieth time. I’ve done 502 words. The computer gets switched off and I breathe deeply to try to clear the pressure.
Thursday
It’s two in the afternoon. I should be writing, but I’m not. I’m playing Tomb Raider. I don’t give a damn either. I don’t have to write every day if I don’t want to. But the guilt is pressing me down. The pressure is clouding my mind. I blaze away at some baddie and Lara smokes the dude.
‘Okay! Okay!’ I shout out loud, not caring what the neighbours think. I get up and stomp around the room. ‘I’ll do it! I’ll do it!’
The screen is on, Word is open, the chapter is before me. But I can’t jump inside the story. I just can’t do it. ‘You can! You can!‘ The words come from somewhere, but I’m damned if I know where. Okay, you’ve managed a sentence, try another.
Friday
Like a bedraggled survivor of a storm, I punch my calculator and tot up my weeks work. I’ve done 2014 words of first draft. It was a fight, but I didn’t quit. In my heart, that’s how I know I’m going to be a writer.
Monday
Sailed through over a thousand words and it was brilliant. Enjoyed every minute of it. The sun is shining and the birds are singing. Hey, this writing is a lark eh? Piece of cake. Damn this is great! Who would want to do anything else?
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Ah George, I think that’s why we call it work and the non-writing world looks upon it as so romantic. As though it should be easy because it is just a bunch of words and yet it is – aside from running 10 km at a time in bloody army boots – one of the hardest things I have ever done. Yesterday my dad made a comment to my daughter that it’s a good thing she’s working so hard [at University] since there is only one other person in the house that works [referring to my sister]. “What about me,” I asked incredulously, “am I not working?”
“Well,” he said,”you’re not really working just writing are you?”
“I get paid every week for this stuff, you know.”
“Yeah, but it’s not really like working is it?”
*insert head thumping against the wall smilie right here*
Keep up the fight George. It’s a good one, and I want to read all of your stuff, just as the rest of the world will once they know what you have locked in that head of yours.