It's not just been months since I've written a blog, it's been months since I've written full stop. And there are no excuses; I haven't been especially busy, or tired, or without inspiration. I just chose everything above it, everything that was easier.
I am addicted to little wins, quick moments of achievement and validation. I am no good at the drawn out journey, the patience required to see something through. That's why I have so many unfinished books and blab on about wanting to be a writer, with nothing in my way but myself.
Today has been fully my own and I have, as per usual:
-Hidden away in the creations of others - books and TV.
-Made honey and peach popsicles.
-Thought about how I should write a million times and failed to.
And now, instead of cracking on, I'm writing here. Why? It's easier. It's a quick win. In twenty minutes or less I will have something tangible; a tick off the list, a small but complete chunk. A novel isn't like that. A novel stretches on like some endless, untameable river. You can't see the end. You just have to keep swimming. Or, you can be me for the last few months, and simply tread water.
The good news? I'm still in it. I am about to pick up my old journals and sift through them for any good lines which might inform the journals of one of my characters. I'm still locked into a six day writing retreat in September, and somewhere, once I'm able to get past my own mass of bullshit and sheer laziness, I can still see the book.
The bloody book. Waiting for me to figure out how to return. Looks like it's going to be one tiny step at a time, one tiny word at a time. That will have to do.
