DISCLAIMER *Any publisher or editor who [has signed/is contemplating] a publishing contract with me should
completely ignore all of the following.
I’m at the
halfway point.
Wading
through treacle.
Self-doubt.
Imposter
syndrome.
The “why
did I make this book so complex?” stage.
The “why
don’t I write really short books with basic plots?” stage.
The “please,
will someone else write my book for me?” stage.
Shall I
watch ‘The Wife’ film again?
*Spoiler
Alert* I want Glenn Close to write all my books and win the Nobel Prize for
Literature for me. I could go to Stockholm again and eat cinnamon rolls.
I interrupt
my son’s revision to ask him what cinnamon rolls are called in Swedish. Kanelbullar. That's a nice word. Kanelbullar.
Full-on
procrastination cleaning out the fridge, hoovering the cutlery drawer, watching
‘The Thick of It’ on iPlayer, dusting my desk and sharpening pencils.
I am so good
at procrastinating.
I am good at
something! Yay me.
I take it up
a gear.
I count the
days before book delivery date and do a pie chart to show how many are possible
writing days. I calculate the average word count I need to meet my contractual
target. I adjust my figures to allow for sickness, family obligations, a holiday…
I wonder if I should have used my A’ levels in Maths and Further Maths in a
more constructive way.
I like
graphs. I'd forgotten how much I like charts and graphs.
Shall I
forget writing and become a statistician? Yes, my life will be so much easier.
Won’t it?
I complete a memory research request on voice-recognition. I am delighted that my short-term memory
is excellent at discerning chiming bells and voices. But I worry that
I performed badly on today’s long-term test on voices I heard ten days ago. Old
voice? New voice?
I interrupt
my son’s revision to ask him if I have performed any better than a random
monkey randomly answering the fifty-fifty old or new voice questions. He
explains probability to me and makes me doubt my aforementioned A' levels in
Maths and Further Maths.
I cannot
become a statistician after all. I have to carry on being an author.
Also, bad
news, I am not as proficient as a random monkey tapping at the keyboard.
I write
lists of questions in my notebook to make me feel better about plot holes in my
novel.
I give the
questions a heading: The Unsurmountables. I like the heading. I picture
an action movie with Sean Connery and The Rock.
I check if ‘unsurmountable’
is a word and the difference between ‘insurmountable’. The WikiDiff entry makes
no sense whatsoever. I should rewrite it.
I worry
about my cast list. Too old? How old is Sean Connery?
1930! Sean
Connery was born in 1930. He is too old for my action movie. I shall recast.
I laugh at a
tweet with a funny picture from author Marie Basting about two and a half hours
writing and her word count has gone up by seven words. Her tweet is longer than
her WIP output for the day. I have a brief warm glow that there’s a whole
community of #amwriting people out there feeling like this.
Or is just
me? That’s the self-doubt again. I check my word count so far for the day. Marie
has beaten me.
I interrupt
my son’s revision so he can thrash me at table tennis. I feel slightly better.
I buck up,
eat a biscuit, and tell myself that it will pass.
I pick up my
notebook and turn to The Unsurmountables. Jodie Comer. I shall cast her.
Boom! I am current and hip. I add more insurmountable questions to the list.
I look at The
Truth About Lies on the shelf and wonder how on earth I wrote it and
ponder the nature of selective memory that has removed the bad times to make
sure it is not my only novel.
Logic tells
me this stage will pass again and become a distant, buried memory.
I write this
blog.
I sneak up
on my novel late at night when it’s not expecting me to put in an appearance. I
start typing. I put one sentence after another and watch the word count slowly,
slowly grow.
Tracy Darnton is the author of The Truth About Lies,
shortlisted for The Waterstones Children’s Book Prize 2019. She has an MA in
Writing for Young People.
