It’s been a near perfect day. I was in London watching the early stages of the marathon this morning and the city looked its best. The teenagers couldn’t rouse themselves, so my husband and I had some time alone in the sunshine and wondered why we don’t do it more often.
I love this time of year. Everything looks so new and fresh. And the smells, don’t get me started on those. I am a perpetual sniffer. I get a whiff of something floral and I’m off in search of the source like a bloodhound.
I also spent two hours on the book today. I only wrote 700 words, but I made inroads into a tricky chapter and came up with an exciting plot twist.
I had another thought re the whole writing thing. It’s as if I have to give myself permission to do it. I suppose my fear is, I spend so much time crafting the novel, I don’t have enough hours left to earn money and we all end up destitute.
A friend of mine gave up her job and went off to write a book, much to the horror of her co-workers. She self-published and a year later, got signed up by a major publisher and was given a three book deal. Had she not been brave enough to commit to her novel, her life would look very different now.
I don’t have he courage to do that, not just yet. The PR is bringing in money and for the most part, I enjoy it. It is not however, what I was born to do. I could in theory, live off my husband’s wage and take a sabbatical. It would mean seriously curtailing my spending though and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
I will write until its right because I am a badass novelist.