Up early … again (masochists never have a lie-in). So early that the hens haven’t got round to laying. Bring one egg home – instead of six. Fingers recovered from Writathon (Saturday) but mentally knackered. Managed 13 stories over 10 hours, but only 2000 words, the equivalent of walking a marathon. Broken three resolutions to myself (so far) today. The first – never even think about trying to write a novel; the second – never commit myself to something I might not realistically be able to achieve and the third? Promised myself I would never write about writing on this blog.
Oh well. Convinced myself I could write 2000 words a day for 30 days, then signed up to Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month). Persuaded (already over-committed) friend to do the same. Impetus to continue creative writing course I’ve signed up for immediately wanes. Spend afternoon googling prospective titles then dumping them. Add favourite authors to my ‘author’ profile: choose Haruki Murakami, Cesare Pavese, Heinrich Boll and Raymond Carver. Of course there are others but there’s not enough space to put them all.
Decide to ask children for advice. Flatter them that they are wise beyond their years (eldest says, ‘I really don’t think I’m very wise’). Could they advise their impetuous mother if she is really doing the right thing. Send them a bunch of titles to look at. Youngest says tonight he is going to a party followed by a ‘mighty boosh’. I ask what that is, and is Noel Fielding going? Emphasise I am only joking, but remain in the dark as to what he’s actually up to. Obviously he won’t be around to judge my titles. Eldest says he is ‘bound for Berlin’. As I thought he wasn’t going until Wednesday, ask if he is packed and ready to go. ‘No’, he says, ‘I must go and sort that out …’ Decide that I really am old enough to take responsibility for my own decisions; so I add a few ‘writing buddies’ to my profile, and get down to plotting my first novel. Well, at least I start thinking about it.