I had all of yesterday to work on the novel. Yes. An entire day. After sleeping-in, I got up and read the paper while I had breakfast. Then I dealt with some emails and did a few bloggy things and it was time to start.
I have a 1000 word a day target, which, when I have a whole day to write, is obviously not a difficult one. It was only about 10.30am and conceivably I still had about 7.5 hours to achieve my goal. Easy.
I wrote about 300 words. I read over them. They weren’t terribly inspiring. Which got me to thinking that perhaps the entire book isn’t inspiring. This was a sobering thought for a writer still in her pajamas at 10.30 in the morning and only one coffee in her system.
So I did what any self respecting writer should do. I panicked. I fired off an email to CJ, lamenting that the entire book is rubbish and the whole idea behind it, stupid. CJ, smart man that he is, decided that rather than email me back (on top of designing the world, okay maybe not the world, but, you know, stuff, important stuff), he’d call and placate his dramatic, half-Italian wife in the midst of her mini-breakdown.
I say mini, but it wasn’t until he spoke to me that he realised how maxi my condition actually was.“Honey? You ok?” “I’m cleaning the taps.” “What? Which taps?” “The kitchen taps.” “Why?” “Because they’re dirty.” “Honey? Are you writing?” “Yes. No. I’m cleaning the taps.” “You want to talk about it?” “No. Yes. They’re really shiny now.” “That’s great honey. Do you need to talk about the book?” “I think I’ve hit a wall.”
And I had. Hit a wall. So I sat with a big piece of butcher’s paper and plotted out where I was and where I was going. And then I took my laptop outside and sat in the fresh air and picked up where I’d left off hours before. I’m getting through it. I’m writing through the hump. And you should see my kitchen taps. They’re friggin’ awesome.