I’m editing my second novel. I say I’m editing my second novel: what I’m actually doing is opening the document and staring at it for a couple of minutes before realising that actually I’m not thinking anything, and that a song is playing in my head. Then I decide that I’d be more comfortable writing somewhere else in my flat. Next, I tinker with at maximum a couple of sentences before deciding that watching one quick music video would help me to be productive. So I put one on, and make a cup of tea. Then I come back and look at the document again and decide that I hate it, and think “well maybe you won’t hate it after you’ve eaten something”, so I get up and – you’re getting the point.
Being in a semi-permanent state of anxiety and uncertainty every waking minute isn’t new to me, but that feeling has definitely gone up to 11. Writing is hard. My imagination is working overtime when it comes to real life events. The slightest productive act feels like a reconnaissance mission to locate our own concentration. My ability to be whisked away to a new world feels like it’s been tampered with. But, one book has saved my week. Sorry Nan, it’s not the Bible. It’s Flowers in the Attic by VC Andrews. Those kids were trapped in that attic for years. I’ve got nothing to complain about.
