The Finish Line

The hubster is away this weekend playing golf, for the first time encouraged by me, because I have SOOOO much to do... I’ve been head down trying to finish the WIP and I'm at the point where I can see the finishing line, almost touch it. In the meantime, I’ve been eating and drinking crap. I’ve put weight on in the last week– now have lardy lady writer’s bum – and I think I’ve become a little antisocial.

For instance, the phone just rang. Three weeks ago, hell even three days ago, I would have at least leaned across the desk, looked at the caller I.D and decided whether or not to answer the phone. Now, I can’t even be arsed leaning, I am so immersed in what I have to do. I’m drinking copious tea and coffee, marginally better I know than my normal copious amounts of sauvignon blanc, but I’m wired in a sort of exhausted way.

Yesterday, I forced myself to take two breaks. One was a trip to Sainsburys - where I bought two melons, a mango, a packet of paracetamol and two packets of chocolate fingers (buy one get one free). Oh and six toilet rolls. I have so far consumed both packets of biscuits and thought about making a fruit salad, while stacking the loo rolls on the loo roll stacker thingy. My second break yesterday involved watching a movie the hubster had ‘sky plussed’, where there were so many plot holes that I needed the paracetamol and ended out yelling at the television ‘Just die, asshole!’

This morning I’m back at my desk ignoring the phone, the doorbell, the telly and the internet determined to write another two thousand words before I make the fruit salad. Stop laughing. I will make the fruit salad.

In the meantime, two thousand words must flow before my next break. I know what scene I have to write. Thinking about it, I’m smiling and I realise this is why I allow myself to become a fat recluse every now and then. I know what I have to do and I know the words will soon begin to flow. I’m excited because in the next few minutes my characters will take me far away from loo roll stackers and fruit salads.

But the phone is ringing again. Persistent little bugger. My daughter’s voice speaks on the answer-phone. ‘Mum, you have to eat. Come out of your cave for a few hours. We’re having a ‘Barbie’ at three. Be there.’

That sounded very much like an order. I wonder briefly when exactly that role reversal took place? Did I not notice it because I was too busy in my cave? I check my wrist, 10:05 and look out my office window. It is a lovely day. If I don’t take a break until then, I could get an awful lot done. I could even take a fruit salad with me.

Must go. ..Things to do... Imaginary places to be... Then must make some time for the real world.

Head Count

At a recent book reading and signing I was asked an interesting question.

Frankly, any question is welcome over the sea of bemused faces that usually follow my reading an extract from my latest novel, which makes no sense out of context and has been expunged of all swearing, violence and spoilers. At that point someone asking the way to the loo is a godsend.
But I digress.

On this occasion there was not only a question but a thoughtful one: as a child had I had imaginary friends?
I conceded that indeed I had, being an only child, had many.
The rather fearsome, elderly lady asking – for these are generally the ones with the cojones to pipe up at such gatherings. And bedraggled CW teachers. But they often just want to moan about the state of the publishing industry, how it no longer nurtures true artistic talent.
But back to my lady. It was her theory that all writers had imaginary friends as children. That most lived in entirely imaginary worlds.

As adults, she advanced, we continue until we eventually feel compelled to write it all down.
Now I can’t speak for others, but this struck a chord with me.

As a kid I had armies of exciting playmates freewheeling in my head.
Together we would form pop groups, perform complicated dance routines and travel to far flung lands. Frequently Hawaii.

From time to time, we would quarrel and I’d be forced to cull. Fortunately, there were infinite new friends waiting to be born, all more engaging than their fallen comrades.
By puberty, when many put away childish things, I simply swapped my pigtailed pals for handsome teenaged boys. Naturally, all were desperate to kiss me.
By adulthood, I knew that my little dream world wasn’t entirely normal, that I should engage more fully with ‘real life’, make actual human friends.

I vowed to spend more time with flesh and blood friends. The trouble is of course, those friends are rarely vampires, or the President of the United States. They don’t suggest trips to the Amazon or invent ways to travel through time.
A few years ago, well into my thirties, a new ‘friend’ appeared. She was energetic, outspoken and funny. Great company. She lived in a world where terrible things happened to innocent people and her knack was to set everything right.
One night, I can’t say why, I wrote her down on a piece of A4. The rest is history.
Three books later, Lilly and I are still enjoying our time together. She gets stronger and deeper, more herself with every day. Sometimes we argue, sometimes I’m sick of her. But mostly we have fun.
Of course she’d better not get too cocky or I might throw her under a train.