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!
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Lewy, I have broken your blog's comments virginity, can it bend over?? Will the gonads provide you with some writing material?
ReplyDeleteWaz.
Lewy - your writers block blog post was a great piece of writing. Your head's meant to be blocked. Go back to your computer and start writing your novel....there is no downside for your readers because when you get writers block we get to read your wonderful writing about it. We win both on both accounts but I can tell you want to get on with your novel. Somehow take some pressure off to write. Get Tash to give you a massage. Bye mate, Blanksie....im proud to be second on the comments list after Wazza!!!
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