I did set myself to write every single day. And that I did do. I was not prepared for the many obstacles that would stand in the way. Little ones, pesky ones, brittle ones, and testy ones. Sometimes they are big and sometimes they are even legitimate. They can seem insurmountable. Sometimes it feels like you are scaling the impossible summit of Mount Neverest. Mostly you are trudging up and down the foothills and long winding goat tracks on the way up Procrastination Peak.
It is a curious thing. If someone is doing something around the house – checking a carburettor or painting a wall, or even just watching a tv show, people tend to leave them alone to get on with what they are getting on with. If someone is writing (especially fiction, and how do they know it is fiction?) then people feel quite at ease to interrupt them. Their attitude is this – “You are not really doing anything. You can get on with that later, sometime, anytime. Now come play grand theft auto with me.”
But you, dear blog readers, are writers, are you not? You understand. You accept me. Maybe.
Anyway, I wrote every day for a year. Even when I didn’t feel like it, and especially when I didn’t feel like it. And yes, I wrote on the shit days when I had no mojo and even less inspiration. In fact when I look back on the words produced on those days – they were often much better than the ones written on the glory days of genius and boundless creativity. Funny that.
I am proud to have written each day for a year. I lost my job and now have no friends, and my girlfriend won’t sleep with me, but hey, I have a manuscript! Well, a first draft anyway.
Obstacles, begone! I will brook no every which way. I’m light. I’m loose.
As a goose.