I have to confess it’s Thursday. It’s not even Friday. But I’m writing this post just in case tomorrow gets ahead of me and in the mad rush of kindergarten dashes, ballet delivery and grocery retrieval I forget to post my Friday Writing Confession. Here it is. It’s brief:
Chapter Six now consists of 2,500 words.
Some of these words were written in Berlin, some this week, but I have managed to coalesce them and I know where we’re going. There’s a bit of South African election madness in this chapter, a car accident in London, a bit where a mother meets her son’s male friend over his hospital bed and becomes convinced this is his lover, and another bit where she realises that home, however much it has her heart for its beauty, will always be a laager for her, a place where she is trapped. Does she go back to being trapped? Of course she does.
Now that I’m beyond the sticking point of my novel, beyond my own trap of 30,000 words, and heading into the meat and bones of it, I’m stunned by how workmanlike the process is. Word after word after word. Move the action on. What to put in. What to leave out. I have had soaring moments of inspiration before, but not this week. This week I’ve been loading my wheelbarrow up with bricks and carting them one place, getting them out, then loading them up and carting them somewhere else. It’s been a slog.
I need to get both my writing and my exercise routine back on track, because the two seem to feed off each other. The more I exercise, the more I clear my head and the easier the words seem to flow. This week, with no exercise (thanks to a massive migraine and hayfever, followed by laziness), they’ve been clogging. But at least I know where I’m taking them.
How was your writing week?