My Words at Wembley

Well, well, well. So it’s finally happening! It tool a bit of teasing out of me, but I feel like celebrating, because yesterday evening it came over me for REAL – the urge to write. The URGE, not the dream or ambition, but the actual, dizzying, exhilarating, laugh-out-loud URGE to write. I just had to write, there and then, so B busied himself with folding the laundry whilst I had my fix on the balcony. And so this morning, it’s there again. 7am and I bounced up, all I could think about was how I just needed to sit at my laptop with a cup of coffee next to me. 

And that’s where I’m sitting now. Sure, I unloaded the dishwasher first and cleaned up in the kitchen, but I’m still me, OK?

It’s just me, my coffee and my words. B’s gorgeous body is still toasting under our fancy cooks-you-in-your-sleep duvet, and Monkey’s at his dads. Just me here in the dining room, where this big table is littered with my notes, maps and notebooks – this is the space I have made my writing corner. Sitting on the sofa doesn’t work, because I end up watching TV, and also, sitting here makes it a little more serious and structured. Hell, I need to be serious – I chuched in my fulltime (and well paid – shit, I miss shoe shopping) job for this, made myself a fulltime this-is-what-I-do-for-a-living WRITER.

I’ve always been a writer, of course, just never had the guts to really go for it before. 

Some silly woman on Facebook put something like “I like to write but too humble to call myself a writer, I’ve never been published”. What complete tosh, silly little bint. I have been published several times and paid for some articles too, and I had a literary agent willing to represent me four years ago, before my balls shrank drastically and I chickened out. But so what, what if I’d never been published? I’ve always been a writer. 

Can you only be called an artist once someone bought a painting? Or is it enough if you give one away and whoever you gave it to hangs it on the wall? Does it only count if it’s not friends or family? And if you lose your job? Can you then no longer say you’re a doctor/accountant/whatever until you are employed again?

Rubbish. I say if you know in your heart you’re a singer, then you’re a singer, regardless of whether you can sing in tune. End of.

So back to the urge to write! This is amazing! Suddenly I have so much to say, and Alice’s world is getting quite chaotic, mostly still contained in my head. My appointment with R was rescheduled, but I intend to have 7,000 words done by Friday when we have our Skype session. 

7,000 glorious words! 

Sounds a lot? It isn’t. Not when you type as fast as I do. And not when you finally have all these words queueing up in your mind, far, far, far back around the corner coz they’re so many. You’d think my laptop was Wembley and there was a One Direction concert going on. My words feel like that, right now, there in their long queue. Over excited, excitable, borderline hysterical, loved-up, starstruck teenagers – it’s just they don’t give a shit about Harry Styles (if they did I’d fire them), it’s their part in Alice they’re so hysterical about.

So when I say 7,000, bear in mind that when I’m in the flow, I easily write 2,000 words within the space of an hour. Not perfect, final product, print ready prose, but most of the time pretty OK and just in need of a bit of tidying up, additions and tweaks. But let’s say, if I take a bit of care when I write, still, we’re taking 1,000 at least if I spend an hour. I mean, look at this, approaching 700 words (just managed to find word count on ‘Pages’ – still getting used to a Mac!) and according to the timer it’s been 16 minutes. 

OK, so this is just a brain dump, my daily morning exercise to massage my creativity, but even so. When I have things to say, when my words are forming a queue to Wembley, in those moments I am bloody FAST and if I keep my momentum now, there is no reason whatsoever why I shouldn’t have it all written within three months. Sure, after that, we’ll get to editing and changing things around, and after that the whole carousel with proposals and endless rejections. I’m confident it’ll happen, but those rejection letters are sort of mandatory. Gutting each time, but sometimes – like last time – you get that call from an agent, telling you they see potential and want to discuss your manuscript further.

This time around, when I get that call, I will NOT chicken out. 

I am woman, hear me ROAR!

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