Diary entry #2 - Jerm

It's amazing how good it feels when you get on a roll. As my literary friend, Jeremy, put it, it's like a shot in the arm. Not that I've ever done heroin, but after watching the characters' languid exhilaration in 'Trainspotting' several times, I can imagine what it's like. Just not in front of Begbie.
Jeremy, on the other hand, is a reformed junkie. An Irish teetotaller. A contradiction of sorts. He's now a writer, and acts as a sort-of mentor to me. He rents an office in the city to write from. His main focus of late has been the final draft of his script 'Seventh Veil', a dramatic, page-turner that he's polishing up with the hope of garnering agent interest.
We caught up last Monday. After a squirmy morning I left my little desk around midday and hopped on the train into the city to meet an old friend for lunch. After bading her farewell, one glass of white wine to the good, I rang Jeremy on a whim. Let's catch up, he said. In ten minutes we were shaking hands, he observing my relaxed demeanour. Previously, when we caught up, I would sport office attire and a drained expression.
The sun was out, so we went into a pub on Flinders Lane where the steadfastly-'80s' décor is partially covered in darkness. I ordered a Carlton draught for myself and a water for him. He seemed excited by the froth at the head of my pot and recalled his AA meeting from earlier that day. I apologised for drinking in front of him. Not at all, he said.
We talked non-stop for half an hour, as we always do. If I could have him nearby for a coffee at the beginning of each day I would. His unyielding enthusiasm gets me every time. And this from a man with a wife and two little mouths to feed, and another on the way. A man whose amazing talent isn't unhinged by mounting day-to-day pressures.
He's done the sums and says the family needs $1200 each week to get by. Six months ago it was $1000. In less than a year, with an additional member it'll likely be upwards of $1500. And, yet, they soldier on. He has a big belief in things 'always working themselves out'. In addition to the 'bits and pieces' he does, including the writing of script sections for others, his wife, who does contract work in advertising, brings home the remaining bacon. But, as he reflected, eyeing off my beer as he drained the remainder of his water, it's time for him to put the almost-finished screenplay, the rewriting of his novel, on the back burner as he re-enters the workforce. Need the bread.
We left. He had to get back to the office to bang out a few desperate hours before stopping off at the creche on the way home. We stood out front of his building for five minutes, discussing the industry. He told me the story of how everyone at a publishing house in Dublin read and loved his book, and yet he was told that it 'wasn't for them'. Expletive central. We shook hands and went our own ways.
Jeremy has been living like this for years, alternating writing time with babysitting time with the odd menial job thrown in for good measure. For someone like me, with many mental mountains to climb before getting into a position of rewriting, of polishing, of producing something big, he is an inspiration.
After every meeting he gets me thinking outside my normal realm. I've come to the realisation that writers have no choice but to chase their dreams, and often that means to chase their tails. If you have the talent, especially if it's your only talent of substance, it (the writing bug) will get you eventually.
Maybe I wasn't put on this earth to write, but it's a far more likely story than being put here to do anything else with my hands.
The next day I wrote 3000 words. The day after, another two thousand. Bringing it home, although I'm already here.
Living the dream!

Diary entry #1 - when the covers are thrown and the curtains drawn

All this free time isn’t what it cracks up to be. Last year, when I was working full time and writing my novel whenever I could snatch an hour or two, the words would flow and I’d walk away satisfied. I got some great feedback from my writing class. A High Distinction for my manuscript.
My girlfriend, already putting together plans for me to quit my job and write from home, remarked at how much I’d get done if I did it full-time.
Now, with a dwindling back account, I’m spending hour after hour sitting at my window desk (with the curtains drawn), with only my scattered thoughts to keep me company, and I’m finding myself willing the words to come; to get this darned first draft finished.
It isn’t all bad though. In times of struggle I’m always finding ways to occupy my time; to allow me a sense of worthiness.
Just yesterday, after a morning where I foraged like a blind man through the grey-smudge of words on my screen, I walked down the stairs from the bedroom that doubles as my office. Arriving at ground level, I noticed a layer of fluff had attached itself to my bare feet. So, after lunch and viewing an episode of ‘The Office’ that I must have seen ten times, I pulled out the brush and shovel and went to work on the begrimed stairwell.
Then, after taking a minute to wipe my brow, I polished it so I could see my desperate face looking back at me.
After reading a chapter of Robert McKee’s instructional and inspirational ‘Story’, I went upstairs and tried to start again. One hour and minus 300 words later I noticed 4pm was approaching and it was time to clean up in preparation for the better half’s imminent homecoming.
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t due home for three hours.
The dishes into the dishwasher, the benches wiped down. The hallway carpet swept (I couldn’t find the vacuum cleaner).
Time. The precious commodity. Filling hour-long blocks; making them count. I find myself frequently checking my watch, like I did when I had the office job. Now, I bring the watch close up to my ear, listen closely for the ticking. Tick-tock, tick-tock. 4.15pm.
And again I looked upstairs, willing myself to sit down in front of the computer.
So, I arranged the pantry. Tossed out the previously hidden stuff that should have been used earlier in the century. Batched the herbs; the conserves; the stray soup sachets. The countless opened packets of linguine where the cook couldn’t manage the last five or six strands, all combined in the one (polished) jar.
Using one of Jamie Oliver’s recipes I marinated some meat. Prepared a Thai salad.
My girlfriend and her sister love the clean house and prepared meals. Their parents are thrilled someone is looking after them. I’m becoming quite the domestic, twice the cook. Maybe being a stay-at-home dad is my lot. Mr. Mom. Now, there’s a back burner for my writing if there ever was one!
The clock at the bottom of my screen keeps ticking by. And so is the clock inside my head.
Living the dream!