We've got work to do.

 

All I’ve ever wanted to do is write and, from when the kids were in primary school, I was lucky enough to do it full time. I’m not saying I was Tolstoy or Tolkien, or even Barbara Cartland, but some seemed to like it, so I kept going, and it was easy. Until…

I met this bloke and he made me fall in love with him. Rude, right? I know. Not only did he want to marry me; he wanted to spend time with me. Freaked me out at the start, I admit. I was used to being married to someone who couldn’t give a shit if I was in the same post code, never mind the same room! Then five years with just me and the kids and it was a shock to the system. So was the day job I had to get so we could start thinking about buying my ex out and turn our home into our house – which I know sounds like I’ve got that round the wrong way, but I know you know what I mean.

Once that was out of the way, I thought I’d just pick up the story I was already 55,000 words into and finish it. Nothing I’d not done before. I usually had two or three ideas on the go at the same time. Easy, right? Nope.

Writer’s block is very real, having experienced it before, this was not news to me, but not like this. It’s been a while since my last book was published and I pick up my laptop three times a week and stare at the screen, willing my characters to talk to me. And when they don’t, I start to wonder if they’re silently telling me not to wait for them to. The genre has changed so much and there are so many fabulous new writers out there, I know, I’m obsessed with several of them, I’m not sure anyone would remember my scribblings anyway. I know, I know, but it’s my party and I’ll bloody cry if I want to.

So… while I sit here in front of Netflix, watching Taron Egerton beat the shit out of Charlize Theron (Apex, you should give it a look, it’s really good!) and try to decide if I want to get that 55,000 worder finished, or any other of the half-finished manuscripts that are on my one drive, something has just occurred to me. I’m writing. Definitely not Tolstoy or Tolkien, or even Barbara Cartland, but I am writing and in the back of mind I think I just heard Will and Scott, or maybe it was Sam and Dean, say:

“We’ve got work to do.”