The Extreme Sport of... Writing?

Last week was AMAZING. I'm high on life and full of the joys. Intrigued? Excellent. On we go.

13,395 words, baby!

First, let's remind ourselves where we left off. If you were here last time, you'll know I was about to have a week, home alone. My plan was to blitz the novel, which I've been slogging through since February, joking that by the end of the week, I'd 'emerge from a pile of screwed up papers, shoulders aching, clutching a freshly printed tome under my arm'. Well? I didn't quite manage that. Tbh, I never thought I would. But I did surprise myself. Between Monday and Friday, I wrote 13,395 words. That's about the same number I managed between February and April. I know! I'm sky high on adrenaline!

When writing becomes a challenging slog, it's a right old pain in the arse. No matter how many times you tell yourself that all writers feel blocked, or that brain fog's standard for a 'woman my age,' or that after lockdowns and COVID, a lack of concentration is understandable, it doesn't make you feel better. Or make it easier to find your way. 

And then there's the overwhelming feeling of guilt for being self-indulgent. When things are tricky, and the story's nowhere to be found, it's easy to lose heart. 'What's the point? Another book won't save lives or change the world. Give up, Loser! Do something useful.'

But that voice is talking bollocks. Actual bollocks. My books might never be in shop windows, or top the bestseller lists, but they do get read. And some people who've read them, tell me they like them. And one or two of those people tell me they love them. When I think it's too hard to keep writing, I remember that. 

A (batshit) artist's impression
of my teenage years.

I also think about the books I've loved. Some were written by mega-famous authors who didn't need the money or validation. Many were not. I cannot imagine my teenage years - which were basically fine - if I hadn't had access to a library of books that provided escape. Hundreds of stories by unknown writers have poured into my head. Names I can't remember, plots of which I've only the vaguest of memories. But for the duration they took to read, I was transported. To other places, other eras, and other people. I experienced SO much in the bedroom at my parent's place. (That's not even a sex joke!)

So my week was brilliant because I found my way, and got back on track. I hammered the keyboard from dawn till dusk. I felt adrenaline highs, along with the aches of mental endurance. It was emotional, folks. Now, there's only three more chapters to write, (15000 ish words) and I can see exactly where it's heading. That also feels boss.

Ooh, it's like a scene
 I wrote last week.

The other lovely thing about a concentrated week of writing, was I got to spend it with my characters. Sorry, I should've sounded the 'wanker' alert before I said that, but it's true. I've created characters I really like. Sometimes the story demands I've to make them behave badly, or insensitively. But you have to fundamentally like your characters. If you don't, no one else will. So while I spent the week making Leeza and Jake get up to all sorts of shenanghans, I had an absolute ball. I was hanging out with my friends. Imaginary friends, sure, but it was a blast.

So what's next? As much as I feel a sense of achievement now, I can't keep up that level of effort. Mainly because the house is no longer empty. But even if it were, I'd be overwhelmed. My brain would be wrecked in no time. (I didn't eat many balanced meals or do much exercise. Not a great plan, long term.) But I've proved what I need to do. Set targets. Stick to them. Ignore distractions. It's hardly rocket science, is it?

I did this a few times over
the weekend. Just around
 the house, like.

I know my books will never make me rich, and that's OK. Some people have enjoyed them, and they might've provided a bit of escape or a sense of calm to make every day life easier. That's enough of a reward as it is. But since Friday night, I feel high as a kite! Like I've run ten marathons! I'm invincible! The thrills are real and they feel amazing. Who knew writing was an extreme sport? 

Have a lovely week, folks.