Yesterday was one of the days when Life intervened, and in a big way. It is an easy excuse, glib, tripping off the fingertips as I type. As with many, if not all, excuses, it is not entirely true.
Yes, it is true that when I sat down after work to start writing I completed one single sentence before an offspring came in the front door, snuffling and wheezing from a cold and wanting attention, tea and sympathy. I delivered those and I’m glad of it. Before said offspring arrived, though, I had frittered half an hour on the web rather than writing (as an example plucked at random) a second or even third sentence.
Yes, it is true that then Sigoth came home and we talked about his day, and mine, and offspring’s. After dinner and washing up we indulged in an episode of House because no matter how bad your day, your life is not as bad as that. I could have done some writing, but I was cosy on the sofa with offspring. I don’t know about you, but I can’t write when there is someone next to me, peering over my shoulder to see what is going on in a human-curious fashion. It happens on the bus or train, or in the café, when I am out and about with my journal; it happens at home with my family. I admit it, I am not proud of my prose. (I share it here because I can’t actually see you rolling your eyes, so I feel a little safer. Plus I can control the comments J )
Yes it is true that when I got back to my computer a little later, Skype demanded I talk to another offspring. You can’t deny the power of Skype. Or of parent-ness.
Yes, it is true I went to bed a little early to snuggle under the Blanket of Inspiration and plan out the next section of the novel, what I was going to write and how, and whom. One of the characters is doing a damn fine job of hiding, I must say. Every time I track her down she manages to change the topic of conversation or just sneak away. I’ll get her in the end though. Sadly last night I sat and looked at a magazine and stared planning a colour scheme for the spare bedroom instead.
Yet when I did try to write some sentences, I struggled. Even in those gaps when writing was a theoretical possibility, it did not happen willingly. Friends, in total I wrote 622 words. Of which approximately 622 will probably be deleted later today.
The good news is I know what went wrong; it wasn’t my lack of commitment or the vagaries of family or the seductive allure of Hugh Laurie. It was because I finally succumbed yesterday and actually signed up to NaNoWriMo, rather than just, you know, deciding to write 50,000 words by 30 November. I don’t sign up to things usually, but I had an urge to belong to that world this year.
So this is the curse of trying to be part of the In Crowd. It’s definitely not my fault.
I raise a weary glass to the Muse and challenge her to come back and face me.
Keep warm (or cool if you are south of the Equator) and write well. The writer in me salutes the writer in you.