A few months ago I had a vague idea for a novel.
Vague to the point of being a haiku really.
But I started writing it anyway.
For the next four nights I drove my husband berserk in bed (not like that) by sitting bolt upright in the middle of the night exclaiming loudly: "THAT'S a brilliant idea!"
According to my husband nothing is a great idea at 3am.
I kept merrily writing away in the moments and occasional hours I had free to concentrate.
I told an infinitely wiser friend what I was doing and she warned me of the following.
A manuscript takes 6 months to write.
Watch out for the 40,000 word wall.
Your manuscript is not your novel.
I blithely agreed with her knowing with ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY that I would have the ahem, novel finished in four weeks tops and it would be in shops in time for Christmas.
As one does with the arrogance of never having attempted to write anything longer than 700 words in recent years and the certainty that it would be "too easy."
I was further buoyed by the support and encouragement of some very generous writers who read my initial three or four thousand words and told me to keep going with it. Thank you so much ladies x
I had even organised three days where I would be child and husband free so I could get into lockdown and, you know, finish it within the four to twelve it was a taking a bit longer to write than I had thought week time frame.
Within two days of that conversation my husband was struck down with flu and I slammed into the wall with my story at 25,000 words. No matter about the 40,000 word wall. I was peaking early it seemed.
I had absolutely no idea where I was going with it all. I had a clearly mapped out plan but at the time it all seemed too hard to keep going.
I came down with the flu myself 24 hours later and left the initial print outs of my story in a drawer to gather some dust.
It became a stand-off situation whenever I entered my study. I refused to open the drawer and that way I could co-exist with what had become THE STORY THAT WILL NEVER BE FINISHED.
And so it remained.
Until a couple of weeks ago when, at the gentle but persistent urging of Husband I took it out of my drawer again. He has much more faith in my ability than I do.
And I started writing.
The break was good for both of us, me and my manuscript.
Yesterday I spent the day in the serenity of my parent's house writing uninterrupted for several hours. My mother would occasionally tiptoe in with cups of tea served on delicate china and delicious little snacks. She'd back out of the room almost reverentially and I would just keep going.
And I'm halfway there now.
Halfway there means I still have a long way to go. But I will finish it.
Even if it ends up only being my mother who reads it in the end.