Yes, I’ve been talking about writing a novel for yonks. I’ve plotted, procrastinated and petered out so many times, I was beginning to think I was actually allergic to writing.
It’s a common thing, I think. Worrying, endlessly, that what we write will be too terrible and that, I don’t know, the house will fall down or we’ll be sent to the gallows for putting out into the world words that aren’t utterly perfect.
I’ve written things before. Even had bits published but still that voice says ‘no, get a grip, who’s interested your turgid tragic tales?’ Ok, maybe no one does but it does it’s better than doing housework.
So. I’m a thousand words in. I know what structure I’m going to use and there’s a sniff of plot. God, I hope it’s plot I can smell and that the dog hasn’t disgraced himself again. Actually, I wonder what my plot would smell like if it had an odour? These are the sort of things writerly types need to ponder, I’m sure.
Words. Characters. A sort-of plot. I’m devouring other people’s writing and making use of the seven hundred and twenty million books about writing I have on my heaving shelves. If you need inspiration, I highly recommend A Writer’s Book of Days by Judy Reeves; it’s an oldie but a goodie.
I’m filling the creative well, and not with wine before you ask! Theatre and music and podcasts; my brain is bursting! This week I saw The Ballad of Maria Marten – it’s on tour, see it if you can. And then see it again, it’s that good.
I’m not convinced writing a novel that’s as yet untitled is a good thing. It seems a little half-baked. Hmmm. The last novel I started writing was actually titled Half Baked. But that’s another story. Literally.
The Writer’s Book of Days says I must go out, look at things, sniff them and lick them. Or something. The dog’s enjoying this part. He did tell me today that he could easily write a much better novel than me if only he could type. Bloody sod. I’ll show him… he does look handsome having his writerly thoughts though, doesn’t he?