It was a dark and stormy night

After weeks of dedicated procrastination, I finally hit my eureka moment last night: I worked out a way to get back into the story and add what’s needed to the chapters. This happened at 11.30pm, so I went to bed with high hopes and lots of notes on my desk, ready for the morning. Today I wrote 400 words. Now, this may not sound like a lot, but it’s more than I’ve written in a long while. But I’m encountering a new problem: reading back the 20,000 words is not much fun. I know them by heart, so much so that I no longer see them as pictures in my head. One of the joys of reading, for me, is when the black and white page in front of you opens out into scenes and faces, memories and places. When you lose yourself, exit the room and are taken somewhere new. Unfortunately, when the pages are written by your own hand, this alchemy doesn’t take place. Or at least it isn’t for me right now. I find myself skimming through paragraphs because I already know what’s coming - there are no more surprises in store. I think this wouldn’t be an issue if I was writing forward but I’m not, I’m rewriting, and that is… well, frankly, it’s boring. I feel guilty even bringing this up as I know so many of my friends, both real and ‘imaginary’, are wishing for more time to write their books, and here I am, writing one and moaning about it. But I think this is the writer’s way. It’s tough, it’s challenging, and if it’s worth doing it’s going to hurt. My frilly dream of writing fluidly with inked quill in hand and the muse on my shoulder is nonsense. It’s about coming to the page, every single day, and getting the words down, kicking and screaming as they fall out of your head. It’s about allowing yourself to write absolute shit, trusting that nothing is set in stone and everything can be changed. I think I’m writing this post for myself today - to reassure myself that what I’m doing is okay, that the process is working, and that, come hell or high water, I WILL get these chapters sent to my agent on Monday…