Things I've done this week instead of writing my novel.
(This in itself is a brief distraction. mwahahaha)
Should I keep numbering these posts? Well, that invites another question — do they really need to rely on or adhere to any kind of consistency? That doesn’t sound very in keeping with my creative regime. (‘but Grace, there is no regime?’ Hush, you!)
Back in ye olde days of blogging, when I was considerably more popular and relevant (she yells out the window of the writing workshop at a passing cloud) I’d often find that my ‘lists’ posts did the best, reach-wise. I did an irregular ‘about me’ series, each part titled with a number and never longer than two paragraphs of random facts and thoughts — sprinkles of whimsy, peeks into my past and the odd dollop of gossip, but they’d almost always end with a poignant note or ponder that went a little too deep. Most of the time that was accidental, because by that point of writing the post I’d have done so much mental digging, trying to find things I’d not mentioned before (which grew harder as the numbered titles climbed inexplicably into the 50s, but also clearly not because… they were in the 50s?) I was feeling particularly reflective and, yeah, really very vulnerable. But readers liked that.
Anyway, back to this irregular series… Here’s the last one in the little series I started some time ago —
And here’s the latest instalment…
Taking photos of my cat. Soldering silver with a blow torch. Soaking hag stones in hot water and Fairy liquid bubbles, hoping it will take the salty fishy stink off. Shaking together cocktails through ice in stainless steel. Sitting in the parents’ front room with snacks, surrounded by sewing ladies. Trying to get more than 4 likes on a LinkedIn post. Buying too many small tomatoes named by fruit when they themselves are fruit (cherry and plum). Rearranging cookbooks and asking the internet whether they should stand or be stacked on the shelf. Defacing a political pamphlet with gel-penned capital letters and queer stickers. Buying a bespoke Mother’s Day bouquet, then walking through town and silently bonding with everyone who admires it as they pass by. Popping brain pills. Reminiscing about nights out in 2012, when nothing mattered except your level of commitment to a costume, or the likelihood of you being the unlucky drinker of the dirty pint. Taking calls from behind a coffee machine, and looking really cute while doing it. Pitching myself, boldly and bravely. Releasing work-related rage productively — cleaning and tidying my flat, consolidating tote bags of charity donations, recycling all those cardboard boxes I saved but don’t really need, and starting work on an enormous compost patch at the bottom of my garden.
My loved ones and I are doing a charity event this coming weekend, so I’ve been pouring all my energy and social media savviness/madness into that; updating our fundraising page with adorable character bios, working on collaborative content with/for the charity, and sharing the link around with attached quips acknowledging how poor everyone is right now and how the world is on fire but we also want some spare pennies, please… I’ll need a break from shouting into the voids once the walk is over. I’m also anxious that my new shoes aren’t up to the task.
I’ve also been attending evening classes in Experimental Fiction at the Writing Workshop. Does that count as work on a novel? Or is it very adjacent procrastination?
But, wait… Could there be…? A real actual update, about the novel I’m supposedly constantly procrastinating from!? That’s right. Two, in fact.
Last Monday (yes, it was a while ago already but I’m clinging onto this little victory with my clammy, un-manicured hands) I sat down at 7:30am in the Writing Workshop space and came up for air at 9am to find I’d written… exactly 1200 words. And not just that — those 1200 words were a whole new beginning to the story. What’s more, miraculously, I didn’t have to sacrifice anything that came after.
That shy little spurt has brought my messy Draft Zero to 51,900 words total. It’s also given me a much-needed kick of confidence and, as clichéd as it sounds, a breath of fresh air. Suddenly I can believe again that this story will be finished someday. And someone other than me will read it!
Actually, I now have one more person recruited to read. A proper mentor! More on that later. The point is, I’m getting there. Maybe I’ll be able to start writing ‘things I’ve done this week besides writing my novel’? We’ll see. Bear with.
And, as always, thank you for reading.
