Or Living Like a Normal Person for a While
The tree was up, the box under the stairs was filled with tempting treats which had to wait until Christmas for us to enjoy and I still had far too many presents stashed in hiding places around the house for me yet to wrap. That was probably the last time I did any proper writing. That’s nearly a month.
Since then I have been living like a normal person. Loafing about, plenty of time to do the shopping and the washing, playing board games with my daughters, going for walks. Not only doing all this stuff but doing it guilt-free. No nagging voice whispering maliciously: “You lazy cow. Want to get published? You’re never going to if you waste your time walking outside.” That jolly little voice accompanies me most places. But like most of us, it seems to have had an extended festive break. It’s been lovely. I haven’t missed her.
As I was getting ready for work this morning and making a pot of tea I realised that all the nasty roasting tins from yesterday’s dinner were not festering on the side filled with a noxious mix of water and washing up liquid, left there under the spurious premise of ‘soaking’. They usually sit there until I get home from work on Monday evening I’m ashamed to say (not really) But last night I washed them up and put them away. Amazing. I can’t remember the last time I did that. Usually I am itching to get the girls to bed, watching the minutes tick by so I can sit and plan my writing tasks for the week endeavouring to make maximum use of those half hour train journeys (like this one)
So what’s happened? Why am I a sitting here on the train, hunched over my iPad scribbling away (can you scribble on an iPad? I’m not sure)? I really don’t know but it just sort of happened. Over the last three or four days the voice has returned from its Christmas holidays but the break has done it good. It is feeling refreshed and relaxed and has been encouraging rather than demanding. I have found ideas for blogs popping into my head, the plan for my second novel has resurfaced and I can feel the tingle of excitement, I stumbled upon a couple of competitions which I knew would be good for my completed first novel. On Friday’s train journey I wrote out my writing plan for the year with what I would like to accomplish and how I am going to do this. This all seemed to flow into me quite naturally without any prompting from the evil voice – does this mean I am a writer?