Writus interruptus

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There is a myth that a writer can sequester themselves in a room, or some isolated lodge high up in the Catskill mountains, and produce a novel. That they can work non-stop from beginning to end and the world will simply pass by their door until they emerged, dishevelled and blinking, with a fresh steaming manuscript in hand.

Truth is that the writing process is full of interruptions. Even allowing for the simple necessities of life, something is going to get in the way. A sick child, paid employment, a sudden commission – they all might interrupt the smooth process (ha!) of creation that popular culture tells us is the way a novel is made.

So it’s without a great deal of surprise that I have to suspend working on my current work in progress. 15k words in, or a biscuit under, and I have to pause in order to earn a little money. Another proofreading request has arrived and I must down tools to get on it.

That, as they say, is life. We’re used to holding many different things in our minds at the same time. Hell, I’ve taken about a dozen looks at Twitter whilst writing this. The postman’s been with a parcel. I can hear my daughter rampaging downstairs. Nothing to do but to make damn sure we get back to work once the interruption passes.

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Because the biggest fear when we put a project on hold is that it’ll remain on hold indefinitely. It takes courage and perseverance to get back to a project that’s been held in abeyance, especially if it was proving recalcitrant in the first place.

My current WIP, for example, has been a bit of a pig to get down so far. It’s not flowing easily or freely; every words seems to have required its individual blood sacrifice.

But I will persist. I will keep going. I’ll try and use this pause – which should only be for a week or two – to refresh my mind, to build internally upon a story that needs a little thought and reflection every now and again. Or maybe a bit of blankness with de-congest me; either way I hope to get back to it with freshness and vigour.

Failing that – and far more likely – I’ll be back to ploughing my especially claggy field, drawing up a word at a time and taking days over every small decision.

All that matters is that I get back to it and keep moving forwards.

Incidentally, I’ve been calling it my work-in-progress because I haven’t got a name for it yet. I’ve toyed with The Indomitable Gauls (for the Asterix reference, you understand) and Claws but my current favourite is Our Kind of Bastard.

No doubt that by next week I’ll have changed my mind and possibly have a whole new trio of possible titles. Once I’ve finally settled on one I’m sure I’ll remember to let you know.

Peace out. x

The great release

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Today my book is released onto the great unsuspecting world. And today it struck me: there is no-one (save my wife, who doesn’t count, and my daughter, who calls me Momma most of the time so her evidence must be considered suspect) within an hour of me who knows who I am.

It’s out. And nothing has changed.

Hell, I’ve not even got any copies of the novel. I’m going on rumour and hearsay – well, the word of my publisher – that anything’s happened at all. There’s such a colossal disconnect between my daily life and my Twitter-life that, right now, I’m struggling to marry the two.

I’m still a writer trying to get work completed and out in the public domain. I’m still distracted by publicity, by events and by life, the universe, and – as they say – everything.
But now I have a novel out.

They say – those ‘they’ again – that, no matter what else you do, you should mark the occasion. A book release is a big deal, ‘they’ say. It must be celebrated. Frankly, I’ve been too busy with emergency proofreading work and with trying to organise trips to bookshops and conventions. There’s been no chance to even think of organising my own party too.

So: happy release-day to me! A quiet day will be had, unless I spend a little extra time on some promotionary tweets. But there will be no cake. No champagne. Really this is just another day; one spent with a sick child (just a minor snuffle with accompanying nasal oozage) and with no chance of hitting a bookshop or a library or anywhere else where I might see my work.

Maybe this evening I’ll polish this off

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Or maybe work on this

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But there’ll be no visit to the inebriatorium. That’ll have to wait until the much more tangible prospect of the few events I have lined up. They’re the things I’ve been working towards. The actual day of release has arrived as something of an afterthought.

So yes, I’m happy. Hell, I’m delighted. This is the day I’ve been working towards for years. It’s just that… nothing at all has changed. Nappies need changing. The bins need putting out.

Can you smell the glamour?

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“Life. Don’t talk to me about life.”