Friday 2nd August

I complain all the time.  About almost everything in fact; complaining, moaning about life has become a national hobby.  One of the things I complain about is my inability to carve out any time alone in which to write.  I do write my blog every day, of course, but this takes thirty minutes at most. (as long as that, you may well ask) and my ritual is to write it a day in advance while stopping for a coffee and almond croissant on the way to work.  I consider this half-hour daily routine as my treat for being alive.

But in order to really write you do need a fair chunk of time.  Workdays I get home about six, and after walking the dogs and cooking and eating dinner it is gone eight, and to be honest I am too tired to think about writing at all.  The idea of going down to a four day week was to give me Friday as a writing day, but so many Fridays are taken up by those essential household tasks and odd chores, so  more often than not I don’t get much writing done.

So methinks, a three day week will mean there is no excuse for not devoting at least one of those days to writing.  Returning from France on Monday, I am working until Thursday this week.  I have before me a long weekend of three days where I should be able to get some real writing done.

I have started a new story, and am quite excited about it.  I am only about 10% into the story, and have a general idea of how it is going to develop, though as usual, it is the transition of those vague ideas into a real plot that is one of the most enjoyable things about writing.  When I write I have to get into the zone, as I call it.  This involves a bit of re-reading with occasional corrections and takes at least an hour to immerse myself back in the story.  Then as each chapter gets written I immediately re-read and again correct as I go along.  So, it can be a slow process.  Anyway, this weekend I will be on my own at Walton, with no distractions, so I have no excuse at all.