Excuses

I have to fess up and admit that I've achieved very little in the past week.

Two of my flaws which regularly intervene with me getting words on the page:

1. Quickly breaking what appeared to be a solid habit.
2. Deciding that I'm way too tired to produce anything of value.

Granted, as far of my excuses go, prepping for moving house and city is pretty high up there. But you'll be amazed at how good I am at convincing myself that spending two hours searching for a vintage writing desk in Chester, is a better use of my time than cracking on with the novel.

Even though I know that hanging around talking with other writers spurs my creativity, I shunned it last week in favour of box sets and comfort food. The effort of tapping away at keys and asking my imagination to produce a world, just seemed like way too much.

Of course I tell myself things to make it fine:

1. Your life is too mentally overwhelming right now for writing.
2.You'll write so much in Chester, that this break doesn't matter.

Sometimes writing is just like a job; you don't want to show up.

In some ways, that's encouraging, because I'm acknowledging that it can be hard work, that it can't always be an easy rush of words, inner smugness and tea. In other ways treating it like a job helps me let myself off the hook, dishing out an endless amount of indulgent sick days and clock watching.

Every two weeks I have a full week day off to focus on my writing. The majority of these days over the past few years have been eaten up with lay ins, reading, guitar practice, seeing friends, and travelling to see my family. All worthwhile in their own way, but certainly not the intention of my once purposeful salary sacrifice.

2016 saw me start to actually use these days; rising early, setting out plans, letting loose with a red pen. But once again I'm watching the poor little defenceless things disappear through March on moving house and packing boxes.

That's inevitable. What I know I have to do, is what many other writers do out there, make room for it alongside the 9-5, push it into the weekend, persuade my tired brain to put the time in.

And so, I'm slowly ramping back up, squeezing in the odd half hour before work, and picking up my laptop instead of the remote.

I'm working my way through 'A Writer's Book of Days,' one of the truly useful guides out there. The first quarter is heavy on insisting that you plan time to write, just as you would plan dinner with a friend, or a dentist check up - book it and honour it.

I guess (unless you're very lucky) no one's going to have a go at you for not writing. The only penalty is that deep rooted feeling of failure, knowing that you can do better.

It's a choice then, only your choice - when are you going to care enough to shut up and just get on with it?