Sometimes writing work doesn’t look like writing work. You don’t see me with a pen in my hand, or anywhere near a desk. and it’s not that i’m out glamorously filling the well in a gallery or the cinema or by the sea.
Sometimes writing work is an afternoon of shopping and carrying and chopping and cooking, hauling the food processor out of The Badly Stacked Cupboard Of Falling Down Things and repeatedly having to wash up.
It’s making mega chicken salads so I get the whole lunchbreak to write or read in, and don’t have my lycanthropy triggered by queues. Wait, no, I meant misanthropy. Some days they feel the same.
It’s cooking up a two-ton chocolate chilli so I don’t have to cook for the rest of the week – this way I get to write on the other nights, or meet up with sane (i.e non-writing) friends.
It’s making a dozen egg muffins so I have something to throw in my mouth while I’m writing on my commute, thus resisting the croissants at the station that make me sleepy ten minutes later & fall into flakes on my keyboard.
It’s me squinting in a badly lit bathroom, gamely cutting my own hair after watching a five minute youtube video, so I don’t have to talk to the hairdresser and have £40 for books instead.
And writing work can look like signing up for a free BFI course on film making or and getting obsessed with a new (to me) world of short films, because cross-pollination is awesome and it’s all stories, right?
It is super-glue difficult to unstick myself from the belief that I should be All Writing All The Time! Every Day! But it’s only by stopping regularly to sort the rest of my life out, and to take in pretty, non-writing things made by other people that I have a chance to keep up the energy & momentum to edit 80,000 words again.
Now playing, the spooky-beautiful & always dance-making ‘Of The Light’ by Psylhouette: