I get the facebook photo reminders of years passed and I like seeing all the widdle babies in my newsfeed, but there was something else going on a year ago this month. NaNoWriMo. I did it last year after not doing it the previous year. And I finished a book that I’d been writing for more than a fucking decade, and then I finished one that I’d started even before that after a few minutes of wringing my hands. Cut to now and I’m writing again but in a little bit of a lackluster fashion, I must say.
I’ve got a day job – not with cops – and the laundry is still piling up, so not only do I have less time, but I have less time in my head. Boo! Wah! I hear you cry. First world problems – totally. Welcome to the real world – I agree. The real world blows. Which is why I make up my own (very small) worlds in print, full of heartache. Why?! Why do I do this to myself, the weeping and the hurting and the painful love. I said to Husband that I must try and write something a bit happier next time, that doesn’t involve cheating spouses and people pining for forever lost loves. But oh pooh! That is what I live for, the beautiful heartache and the rending of aortas in chests.
My #wip is getting there slowly, whereas a year ago I was getting thousands of words a day on the page. And I can’t pull the midnighters anymore because I’m tired from living in the daytime. Ho hum. But the flipside is, of course, that this time next year I will have my very own words on the page everywhere good books are sold! E V E R Y W H E R E. Amazeballs.
‘Kay. Must go and (google myself) procrastinate some more.