Against the odds: 50,000 to 1,097

On Monday I started working on a story for NaNoWriMo.  The aim is to write a 50,000 word novel by 30th November, which works out at around 1,600ish words a day.  By Tuesday I had 1,097 words.

Today I still have 1,097 words. 

Now, the chances of me catching up on the missed wordcount are pretty slim and with everything going on at the moment, (still fighting off a cold, busy week at work, water & electric company to phone, bills to pay etc,etc) it would make sense for me to admit defeat, right?          

Right.  Except that I don't want to, because the 1,097 words I have written are the start of the novel I have been attempting to write for the past 7 years.    

Time to crack on!

Too many books... (or not enough?)

I've just moved into a new flat and have found that I seriously underestimated how many books I own.  I must have had at least a dozen boxes of books, if not more.  How on earth did I get so many books!?  OK, the crap I bought whilst working in a discount bookshop probably accounts for at least a third, and then there's the uni texts, the 'literary' texts, reference books, not to mention all the cookbooks (most of which I have never used)... 

And then there are the books I love.  The ones I read over and over again. 
I'm fairly sure that I have the largest collection of urban fantasy/paranormal/supernatural fiction outside of the Waterstone's 'Dark Fantasy' aisle.

I don't think that's a bad thing. Not really...


   

Why I don't keep a blog...

There's a reason why I haven't kept a blog or diary for years; I forget about them and leave them to rot, either in the back of a drawer or in the dusty corners of the internet. I'm pretty sure my old Livejournal page is still out there somewhere, rattling around.

I've just finished reading Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger - a very creepy book, especially before bed. I thought it was brilliantly written, she just gets better and better with each novel, although the lack of Victorian lesbians in this one was slightly disappointing.

I've decided to quit whinging about my own writing and have become much stricter over the past few months about making time to write. I've found my lunch hour provides a perfect opportunity to get a few paragraphs or pages out. GoogleDocs is my saviour!

Currently working on a short story about female werewolves. Watch this space.

Why is writing so hard?

I spend all day writing for the company I work for, but in the evenings, when it's my time to write, I struggle to get anything out.
Stress, tiredness, aching fingers... I've used all of these as excuses as to why my writing has been virtually non-existent of late. The main problem I come up against is ideas. I have hundreds of ideas for stories, loads of characters floating around in my head; some brilliant, some er.. not so brilliant. Often I'll have an idea, think 'Yeah, that's great', start writing a few chapters then... nothing. I lose interest/inspiration and it just fizzles out because althought the idea may be good, I have no idea what story I am trying to tell.

Last year, in my 3rd year at university, I wrote the most amazing story (if I do say so myself!) I was awarded a First for my creative writing dissertation, and I was (and still am) so proud of the story I wrote because I proved to myself that I could make my ideas work. It's now about 10 months later and I've written nothing of any significance since finishing my dissertation.

And I call myself a writer!

Carnival

Trust bats; they mimic parents.
She appeared in words
Putting labels on local ideas
while circus babies suffer.

When heated, dogs ricochet
to 2010; they smell oestrogen.
They live; Family suffered,
Breathe milk, smell children. Binge.

Britain’s landslide. She arrived,
excessively, collapsing in childbirth.
On record a female can breathe.
Wednesday; London’s reeling.

Clear plastic, afternoon stars,
Baby juice, alcohol in a bottle.
Bats glimpse empty couples
Postscript: the media won.