I did do some new writing back in the summer when we visited a 'new' part of Scotland (for us - the people who live there have always known about it!) - visiting Dumfries and Galloway - discovering the delight that is Kirkcudbright. We stayed in a tiny 4 roomed cottage with bats roosting in the eves and did very little except eat and read and walk in the rain. But since then, there has been nothing.
I think about my characters often, and feel sad that they're stuck in limbo. I feel like I abandoned them in their hour of need and suspect they may not want to work with me when I finally force myself to the keyboard again. (There's a half-finished Christmas story as well. I'm just not very good at commitment.)
I spent a snowy Saturday this week sorting out the wreckage of Scotch on the Rocks yet again and think I am within six chapters of finishing the first draft. If I can start to write again, work out how I used to do it, I think it will be okay eventually. I don't even know if I have an audience any more.
It is sad but I no longer even think of myself as a writer. I've tried, in recent weeks, to do 'writerly things' in the hope that it might stir me to action, but I'm not a sociable bunny and the writer's group type events I've been to have left me unstirred. My job has become a greedy monster, swallowing up any free time I might have had, leaving me drained and demoralised with little to offer my imaginary friends.
I know I need to escape the shackles of everyday life for a while: break out of the crippling routine of teaching and allow myself to be creative for myself. I need some space and quiet. I probably really need Scotland. More than anything, I need to finish this book so I can move on from it. It has occupied my mind and festered for too long away from the sunlight. Poor book. Poor brain.
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| Or, to the knowing, the inspiration for the 'Slap and Tickle' |
