My Writing Life | Or, How Writing Doesn’t Really Fit Into My Life
Chapter 1 | Introduction
We all have a book in us – that’s the cliché I’ve chosen to open with. I think I have a few (books, not clichés, although I have plenty of those as well). They seem to enjoy prancing around my brain, flashing a sultry sentence or exposing their synopsis with a coquettish giggle before retreating to unreachable parts of my memory. Usually, they reveal themselves when a pen and paper are inappropriate: during a run; in the shower; on a long drive.
“Don’t worry,” I tell myself, “you’ll definitely remember this idea.” I rarely do. Not when it’s a good one.
Some ideas don’t escape. I almost finished a short story once. It needs completely rewriting, but the idea is there and it’s quite good. My first novel is also almost complete, while another has been roughly outlined in a notebook before it was able to scuttle off to join other important memories, like the places I put things, so I definitely wouldn’t forget them, and the things people have told me when I absolutely was listening but somehow don’t remember ever being told. One day I’m going to find that part of my brain and then I’ll prove that I do pay attention, as well as rediscovering millions of lost items and hundreds of award-winning story ideas. My almost finished novel has taken almost five years to write, but I reckon I’ve only got another two, maybe three years until it’s ready for someone else to read. With little more than a couple more years’ editing and rewriting, I’ll have it done within a decade. So long as I don’t find too many distractions to fuel my natural tendency for procrastination.