Dear sir or madam will you read my book?*

I've been writing  a lot this week.  In places other than here, I mean.  One of the reasons for my big decision to jump ship at work last year was to free up some time to see if writing was something I could do, and wanted to do, rather than just something I entertained fantasies about.  Fantasies involving a writer's garret full of quirky vintage furniture and chocolate biscuits, solo holidays in seaside cottages with just a laptop for company and the occasional side gig moonlighting as a detective, mainly.  (I watch a lot of Jessica Fletcher).  I'm still deciding; but it has been nice finding out.  Things I have learnt so far are:

1.  Writing is HARD.

 Really hard.  Some days it comes easier than others, but it's not like playing the piano or riding a bike, where progress more or less looks like this:

My ability to get words on a page, or at least words which I'm pleased with, looks more like this:

Less difficult some days than others, but there's no rhyme or reason to when the less difficult days are.  And see that blue line?  That's the point, roughly, where it feels anything even remotely approaching "easy".


2.  I like the idea of writing more than the act of actually doing it.

That's not to say I don't like the doing bit at all because I do like that bit, a bit.  It's definitely a challenge though. Taking up writing has been a lot like taking up running.  I don't know if you've done much running, but basically there are three main phases:

Phase one - preparation

Decide to go for a run.  Tell yourself that today you are definitely, absolutely, going to clock up 5km / 4 miles / 45 minutes, or whatever goal is on the complicated training plan you devised several months ago, then spent several days fiddling with in Excel to make it look pretty before completely ignoring it.  Spend some time in iTunes creating the perfect playlist for the occasion.  This should take a while; neither the relative merits of U2 vs INXS, nor the question of whether Elton John's early works should come before or after the Scissor Sisters are matters to be taken lightly.

 Put on new running clothes, the purchase of which was justified by the fact that they will motivate you. Hang around the flat for several hours, waiting for the motivational effects of said new running clothes to kick in.

Tackle several vital tasks which absolutely, definitely have to be done before you can start your run. Sorting the contents of your spice rack by colour, for instance.  Do not underestimate how heinous and/or unnecessary some of the tasks which will magically take on an aura of staggering importance and necessity at this time could be. There are extra points for cleaning tasks involving the removal of mould. Eventually, when you have exhausted all other posibilities, actually leave the house.

Phase two - running

 Sigh, moan, and feel clunky at the start.  Suffer a lot.  Feel frustrated that you're not finding this any easier than you did yesterday.  Glare at people. Mutter under your breath about what a stupid idea this was.  Glare at more people, who now think you're mental for talking to yourself.  Wish you had put different songs on that stupid playlist.  Cry a bit on the inside. Notice how different the reality of running (red face, pain in legs, ungainly stomping of trainers on cement) is from your  mental image (graceful glow, antelope-like strides, not a hair out of place). Wonder when the legendary "runners' high" is supposed to kick in. Very, very occasionally, have a sense, about 35 minutes in, of this being, acutally, not quite so horrible. Decide that "runners' high" is somewhat over-rated.

(Alternative phase 2 - not actually doing it after all.  This is a dark, dark, place.  Change out of running clothes and attempt to do something else, while repeatedly berating self for being so pathetic. Eventually give up and collapse on sofa in a sulk and stay there, feeling grumpy and irritated, for much longer than you would have spent running if you had gone in the first place.)

Phase 3 - after it's over

Feel smug.  Realise that wasn't so bad after all, and wonder what you were ever complaining about.  Congratulate yourself repeatedly, even if you've not run as far or as long as you were going to, because just starting was better than doing nothing at all. Causally drop the numbers - how many miles, how many minutes - into as many conversations as possible for the rest of the day. Feel smug again. Engage in copious amounts of chocolate eating / alchohol consumption / clothes shopping by way of reward.  Retain smugness levels. Try not to think about the fact that you are going to have to do it all over again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, if you want today's efforts to actually count for anything.

So far, in my humble experience, writing is pretty similar.  Just substitue word count for miles, and pretty notebooks and paperbacks with titles like "A Novelist in a Year", "Solutions for Writers" and "How Not to write a Novel" ** for new running clothes.  Oh, and the sound-track is less rock/disco/power-ballad, more singer-songwriter/accoustic/classical.  Otherwise, the experience is more or less exactly the same.  Phases 3 and 1 are the ones I like best.   There is no runners' high in the world of writing but there is a magic and mysterious concept called "flow" which I am yet to experience, but am told is quite wonderful.

3. Sometimes it feels awful

 It doesn't matter how many times people tell you that being rejected is all part of the process, and it happens to everyone, and that Steven King was once told he would "never sell" or that Harry Potter was turned down by seven hundred and thirty two different publishers. It still feels pretty horrible.

My first thanks-but-no-thanks email arrived last week, hot on the heels of my first submission.  On the grand scale of tragic events, this one should barely register:  I had entered a competition type thing where the 'prize' was an opportunity to pay to take part in a workshop.  So on the bright side I have saved £50.  Also, in my heart of hearts I was still only about 80% happy with what I had written by the time the deadline arrived.

I didn't expect to win a place, really, and just the act of submitting something was scary enough.  I would have been a bag of nerves if I had actually had to turn up and do writer-y stuff with real writer-y people.  None of these things made me feel any better, of course, when *that* email arrived.  It was a perfectly nice email.  Very polite, in fact.  But reading it still felt like being gently run over by a very well driven truck.


One of my favourite lines in any film ever comes from Love, Actually where Thomas Sangster (who, if you've seen it, is the cute little boy, and  if you haven't seen it, he's a cute little boy) turns to his step-dad, played by Liam Neeson, and says

"Let's do it! Let's go get the sh*t kicked out of us by love!" ***

Now I might be more than a little rusty when it come to being in love (don't worry, I'm fine, really) but from what I remember, this is a pretty accurate description of what it's like.  If you don't ever risk being beaten up once in a while, you miss out on the good bits.  Of course I still sort of hope that love will track me down one of these days and kick the sh*t out of me all over again.  But I've learnt that writing, actually, is pretty good at doing that too.





*Just a rhetorical question-slash-Beetles-reference, to be clear, not a genuine plea.  Although technically, I do have a book.  I didn't write very much of it, though.  

** these are all actual  titles of actual books that I actually own. Welcome to my world.  I have more of them, too.

***1.  If you're wondering, that's a filter-friendly asterisk, rather than a prudish one; I have learnt my lesson.  2. Also the only movie line I have ever known to have its own facebook group.  It's a great line.