Writing in Real Time

This might sound familiar.  This is how a typical wordcount happens in my own ‘Real Time’ i.e. including all the interruptions, distractions and meandering trains of thought.  These words are fresh and in no way represent anything I’ve ever written (nor perhaps ever will).

The banks of the river lay heavy with morning dew, the fronds wait a minute, ‘fronds’, is that the right word or do I mean fernds? No, surely there’s no such word as ‘fernds’, I’m thinking of ‘ferns’ but I don’t think ferns grow by water do they? Aren’t they more… tropical?  Okay, I’ll have to Google it. Oh… look… Fern Britten’s lost a lot of weight lately hasn’t she?  And that Jennifer Aniston (“did you mean ‘Friends’?”) should start using a better hair colour, you can tell it’s not real….  

*PING* Oooh look… Pizza Express are doing one of those lovely offers; two main meals for a tenner… what should I do? Are we going out between those dates? Should I just delete it in case it entices me, or should I keep it in case the Girl wants to use it with her friends?  I’ll quickly text her to see if she needs the voucher saving. 

Okay definitely fronds.  That’s fine.  I’ll go with fronds.  But where was I going next?  Do I really want my banks heavy with morning dew? Now that I’ve seen before and after pictures of Fern Britten I’m less inclined to go with heavy.  Oh god now I can feel a biscuit coming on.

*PHONE* “No, we’re fine.  No, we had it done a few years ago.  Yes, very happy thank you.  No.  Yes.  No.  Not really.  Okay then not AT ALL. Yes our Soffits and Fuschias are just dandy thank you!”

Maybe I shouldn’t have had that biscuit, now my head hurts.  Or perhaps it was the sales call. Where was I?  Oh the Girl’s texted back.  She doesn’t need the voucher but can I take her to her friend’s house tomorrow night.  I don’t know.  I could say yes but we might be doing something else.  I’ll have to text the hubster just to make sure.  

So fronds it is then. 

Camberley Abbey stood regal and proud in the grounds beyond.  Its splendour shone from the majestic leaded windows on the upper floors to the heavy dark oaked doors beneath.  Wait; is it oaked or oak?  If something been ‘oaked’ does that mean it’s been, like, treated with Oak – as in laminated?  I don’t think a majestic splendid Abbey would have laminated doors, would it?  And heavy?  Again with heavy?  Okay how about In the distance, Camberley Abbey’s splendour shone with majestic leaded windows on the upper floors to the great wooden doors below.  Now that’s just stupid. Nothing shines with lead and wood, does it, FFS. God I HATE descriptive stuff.  Why can’t I just cut out the middle man (like, agents, publishers etc) and go straight to film? That way I wouldn’t have to bloody worry about my heavy flippin’ fronds and my majestic laminate doors. They'd just BE THERE.

*PING* Oh, one of my Strictly teammates has a technical problem.  Should I help or should I let someone else handle it?  If I try to help I’m going to get distracted.  But I don’t want to seem rude by not responding.  And aren’t I already distracted by worrying that I might get distracted?  I’ll see if there’s anything I can do. 

*BRRRR* (that’s the mobile – just to differentiate between that and the *PHONE* landline) Yep, that’s fine.  Two o’clock.  Yes.   What, aren’t you coming with them?  But we gave you a key and everything.  But I might be… yes, we are serious about selling but… yes I know, I’m just concerned that… no, it’s fine.  Yep, sure.  Yes, lovely. I’ll see them then.

Right I definitely need a biscuit now.  This is ridiculous.  What are we paying an Estate Agent for if WE have to do the showing around ourselves?  I could probably have run up some details and stuck an advert on the RightMove website myself for less that we’ll end up paying them to do just this.  I’m cross.  I need to calm down.  I need a cup of tea and then I’ll see how quickly I can cobble together some house details and photos.  Ha – maybe I’ll have a change of career.  Then I could do one of those pieces in Good Housekeeping* about how I changed my life at 49 and ‘found myself’.  I’ve always wanted to find myself.  I’ve looked everywhere…

*TEXT ALERT* Ah.  We’re not doing anything tomorrow night.  Hang on, though, why do I need to know this again?  What was I doing with this information? He’s either being deliberately obtuse or I’ve forgotten… ah wait, yes, it’s coming back to me now… I have to text the Girl .

*PING* Ah the Strictly techie problem is sorted.

*PING*  the Strictly techie problem is sorted.

*PING* the Strictly techie problem is sorted. Yes I know that.

*PING* Aaaargghhhh the Strictly techie problem is sorted.

We’re  such a helpful lot, arent’ we?  Maybe I should just turn off e-mail alerts.  But what if something REALLY important comes through, like encouraging news from an Agent.  I’m sure there’s at least ONE agent out there who hasn’t vilified the last three chapters I sent off.  In fact to save them the time and trouble perhaps I’ll send them a ‘multiple choice tick-off’ postcard with the next lot of submissions I send out.  IF I send any out that is, if I haven’t left the country or stuffed stones in my pockets and wandered off into the nearest….. ah… my fronds… my majestic abbey….

*MIIIAAAAOWWWWW*

I don't really need the wordcount icon on my computer.  I can count to ten by eye!

 *Other glossies are available.

Finding The Time

I’ve realised just lately that I’m missing something, something vital, from my writer’s tool box. I have the laptop, the notebooks, the pencil and red pen; bags of enthusiasm for the craft, ideas galore and a genuine will to succeed. So, what’s missing?

Time...

I metaphorically kicked myself in the butt the other day and told myself to make time. There are 24 hours in the day. So what if my daughter is getting married in five weeks and there is still lots to do (least of all is to finish buying whatever I’m wearing) So what if I’m flitting between home and London trying to be with the hubster when he’s not at work. So what if I seem to be constantly fricking well doing fricking, fricking housework when I fricking well hate it SOOOOOO much and I should be writing. And as for the fact that I seem to be unable to say ‘No’ to people who make demands on whatever time is left , well...

Everyone is busy. We ALL lead busy lives, most of us run a full time job, a household and family and we still manage to find some time for writing.

See, I think I lied...

It’s not more time I need. It’s more selfishness. I need to tell myself that every Tuesday and Wednesday, whoever it is that needs something from me can naff off, and whatever ‘thing’ I have to have done can bloody wait. I’m writing. So there.

Easy peasy.

And today is Wednesday. Anyone want to phone my daughter and tell her that no, I can’t drive into London, pay the congestion charge in doing so and a fricking exhorbitant car parking charge in order to collect her wedding dress and drive it home to ours so that it’s hidden? Yeah, I know – it’s an exceptional task but my problem is that at the moment, they all are...

Or are they? Is there some subtle procrastination going on? I really don’t think so and frankly haven’t got the time today to find out. I’ll never know if I was meant to sit and write the best chapter of my life this morning. I’ll never know if instead, I’d have found some way to subvert the time I’d gifted myself and procrastinated beautifully instead.

All I know is I have to keep trying to find the way forward that works best for me. And I do have to start saying NO. But not today, not to my gorgeous daughter who needs me today. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll write. This I promise myself.

Dreaming of a Write Christmas

Dear Santa...please bring less dust next year

There must be no greater thrill than that for a writer who knows  there’s a fortnight’s worth of ‘time’ available to them in the form of a seasonal break (“End of Term” some like to call it).

And I’m always so stuffed full with good intentions that I’m surprised they don’t start seeping from every orifice with the excess of them. However, I also know full well that about three days before I’m due to go back to the paid work, I will realise I’ve positively frittered away this precious ‘time’ (again) in the pursuit of needless activities that could just as easily be shoehorned into evenings I already squander watching mind-numbingly pedestrian televised ‘entertainment’ (again).

It doesn’t matter how creative I get with this ‘time’, I just can’t seem to make writing my priority. There’s always something else that I’ll “just quickly do” before I can settle. Like that thing dogs do when they turn round and round and round in their baskets before they find the exact right place to bed their weary fur. And they always sigh with such pleasure when they find it. This is the sigh I long for. This is the sigh I need before I can write, care free.

There’s always housework. Especially dusting. Which was clearly invented by a man. No woman in her right mind would have decided that an accumulation of small particles of debris really has to be eradicated in the pursuit of personal calm. It doesn’t bother ME, so why should it bother anybody else? And, like my husband’s always telling me, he didn’t marry for my housekeeping skills  - so I can’t argue with that one - it must be me who’s giving me the hard time.

Piles of paperwork. Stuff that needs to be sorted, windows that need to be cleaned (why don’t window cleaners do the insides too?) and cooking that has to be done in order to satisfy hungry bellies. Why? Can these hungry humans not open a can or slice from a loaf just as well as I can? Why is it considered MY place to be nurturing these co-dwellers? If I had it my way, I’d be perfectly content with a cup of tea every hour and a Hob-Nob on demand. Twenty-four-seven. No, honestly. That’s as high-maintenance as I’m likely to get.

It’s because it’s not ‘real’. It’s still the stuff of dreams. It’s what most people still regard as my ‘hobby’.  My mother used to proudly show off her knitting and I’d nod as enthusiastically as I could to a row of plains and purls. With my Nan it was her steak and kidney puddings; my Dad could skin a rabbit with his eyes shut (as were mine mostly). My brother could have played football for Leeds United and my husband can turn any piece of wood into something beautiful and practical. So why can’t I just get on with my own talent and create something wonderful without placing these unnecessary obstacles in my own way all the time?

I guess if I can’t consider my writing to be as important or as valuable of my time that I genuinely want it to be, then I can't expect anybody else to take me seriously.
Right.  Deep breath. I have a fortnight. I have the Christmas fortnight. And I’ve heard that at Christmas, magical things can happen. Oh, and if Santa can't manage that Dust-Free Year I've asked for, perhaps I'll just take to wearing sunglasses as a kind of perpetual nod to festive irony.

So - a happy and housework-free Write Christmas, one and all!

Writing when there's no time to write

There were many things I didn't expect to gain from being published. I didn't expect riches. I didn't expect to become famous or to get invited to glitzy parties. I didn't expect life to become perfect – in fact, I didn't expect it to change much at all. I can't, however, be smug about this lack of X-Factor-style delusion, because I must confess that there was one thing I thought would be different.

I expected publication to legitimise my writing. No longer would it be a self-indulgent little hobby clutched at during lunch hours and evenings. As a real writer, I would be able to assert my right to have time to do my job.

It didn't work out like that. A year after publication, while trying to balance gainful employment with toddler care, I'm running out of spare moments to devote to what those around me still regard as an eccentric hobby. I'm sure the same is true for many writers, published and unpublished, so I thought I'd set out how I'm trying to grasp at brief moments of opportunity.

1. Don't be a mug.
I used to be very conscientious, wanting to get involved with stuff and help people out. But not any more. I've given up all voluntary activities. I've ditched my mobile phone and I don't answer the landline without checking caller display. I don't get back to anyone who only ever contacts me when they want something. Emails might have to wait several days for an answer. The possible downside to this is that people stop liking me when I'm not sorting out their stupid crap for free. Oh dear. How sad. Never mind!

2. Seize every opportunity.
It's very easy for me to feel that because I only have three minutes free, it's not worth starting anything. But that could be three minutes of writing. Even at a modest 40wpm typing speed, that's still 120 words. 800 lots of three minutes, and that's a book! I've given up the need to get my bearings and settle in to a writing session by reading over what I did last time – now I just jump in and get on with it.

3. Always keep some writing handy.
I use Dropbox so that I can access my files from any computer – so if I'm at work and have a chance at lunchtime, I can go straight into my novel without the hassle of emailing different versions to myself. This also syncs with my iPod Touch so I can have a quick read-over of scenes wherever I am.

4. Write or Die.
For first drafts, the Write or Die software is brilliant. By promising dire consequences if you stop writing, it makes you concentrate on getting words down – and I don't know about you, but my writing is no worse when rushed than it is when agonised over. Write or Die helped me finish the first draft of my WIP. It's less obviously useful for the next stage – chopping and changing, sacking redundant characters, scrapping cool but pointless scenes – but I still find it helpful to maintain a Write or Die mentality. Setting a timer for, say, 10 minutes has made me focus on the importance of that 10 minutes – often there'll be interruptions, but it's amazing how much it's possible to do in that space of time.

What I've discovered is that these tiny pockets of time really add up. It's easy to despair that other people are keeping me from writing, but that's a cop-out. It's up to me to take responsibility and make the most of every second of writing time. If that means I haven't answered your email about something you could have Googled in five seconds – well, tough!