I’m writing a book.
Aren’t we all? I’ve already written a novel, years ago. I’ve tried to re-read it but never made it through the whole thing. I like that I’ve done it, I feel no pressure to do anything more with it and naff as it is, I’m comfortable to let it be naff, which is easy when I’m never going to show it to anyone.
Great chunks of it were produced when the stars aligned and I was working in a job that I had very little to do at, my new boyfriend was out of the country and someone introduced me to NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) about a week before it began.
Just like I got addicted to running (until it got too cold), I got addicted to writing. I would be offended if I had to do any work while I was in the office because I had writing to do! I would rush home and get straight into it again.
I set out with the intention that it was probably going to be pretty bad and I probably wouldn’t show it to anyone. Which gave me some freedom in terms of getting words on to the pages but also gave me a get out clause to never show it to anyone. Never seek some direction, mentoring, criticism. I thought anyone I showed it to would laugh. I’d just moved town and didn’t know anyone anyway. I don’t come from an academic or writing-ish family. My sister is a professional creative person but we weren’t close and I would never have considered showing her anything creative I’d done. In my mind, still using 15 year old’s logic, she was the creative one and I was the boring one. She would laugh at me, not with me, and that would really hurt.
This time, I’m writing a very personal book. I’m giving myself the freedom to write like no-one is reading it – so that I don’t censor myself too much to avoid hurting other people’s feelings. And I’m also challenging myself to ask at least one person to read it. The most important person, my husband.
I’ve been ill, it’s pervaded every aspect of our lives and he has been wonderful through it. Neither of us is perfect, we’ve both had moments we’re probably not too proud of. I’m not going all gritty emotional horror show, but already I’ve written a few sections that I know he will not like. I’m leaving them in.
I don’t know if anything public will come of it. Already I can see how it could be adapted to take out the parts my husband may not want public without impacting the feel of the book.
I wrote 5,191 words yesterday. Maybe it’s easier when I’m the subject. Also