I've had a lovely week off. You know, actual time off, not writing a single word kind of week off. Thinking, of course, has proceeded at a great rate and the thinking has now caught up with the rest of the writing.
Meanwhile, I have aced Christmas and Solstice with some help from the children: presents and food on order, a freezer full of goodies, logs in the store (you never know, it might snow!) and the house organised. It's become a bit of a stress over the last few years - so many people, not enough time - but this year I got organised early enough and told people they would be helping. And they did. Thank you, Sophie, Matt, Sam, Isaac, Carey and Rosie, as well as thank you to my ever patient chauffeur. Today we went to Exeter and indulged ourselves with some new clothes and a lovely lunch out. So, the holiday is drawing to a close but I'm ready to jump back to work and my edits on Book 1.
Now writing is work (even though it's still fun) I have to find some way to balance up life and work. I wrote every day for 81 days, and while this might suit some people, it turns out, I may need a bit of thinking time. Say, Sunday afternoons and bank holidays. Maybe sick days. I am lost in admiration of writers who work in proper jobs and still construct brilliant novels.
Last night, our writing tutor set us a task that ended up...nauseating. We were made to produce the crassest of romantic writing. We were to use all the tricks of the trade and exaggerate them into the most disastrous of bad writing. Well, I hope I don't sound too big-headed but after five years of unlearning bad habits and establishing new ones I winced my way through one page and announced the nausea to be overwhelming. I do get to write a monologue, though, should be fun.