Have just got back from being a few days writing in a converted barn in the middle of the woods, which is either the most middle-class I'll ever get, or it's the prelude to a particularly nasty movie in which my dismembered remains are discovered nailed to a wall by country folk in a ill-advised attempt to make sure that the crops don't fail again this year. Either way, it's been gorgeous.
I've spoken before about how tough it can be to get any writing done, how it can be a challenge to get stuff down on the page when you've already done a full day at work, and there's only fifty minutes before you've got to get out for a rehearsal / performance / workshop / whatever, and that's not even taking into any account any time you might want to set aside for eating and basic social interaction. And, yes, you might want to argue that the level of time poverty I put up with is somewhat self-inflicted, and I hear y', but, rest assured - it will be an argument. I mean, I get what you'd be saying - something has to give, right? I can't be rushing from here to there, constantly spinning plates. And, yes, that's true. But I rather suspect that if I put one thing aside - directing that play, or delivering those workshops, for instance - then I would simply be feeling quite twitchy at home, wondering if I wasn't wasting my time just a little. While watching Young Sherlock Holmes for, like, the twentieth time. What? Shut up. Young Sherlock Holmes is Harry Potter for the eighties generation. The arch enemy kid is even a posh boy with blonde hair.
What I've really enjoyed about these last couple of days is the ability, the elbow room, to be able to spend as much time not writing as actually writing. Being able to circle the story before ripping it up and changing the order of the scenes. Being suddenly inspired by a completely irrelevant idea, that's enabled me to go back and fix a previously abandoned short story still sitting on my USB. At some point, spending slightly too much time on a app that allows me to create funky book covers for the kindle editions of my short stories - short stories that I haven't actually finished yet. Just having the time to stare into space - occasionally literally stare into space (we identified two planets), while thinking of the next plot point.
And through it all, a minor note of disquiet. The usual minor note that I get, that's always laced in my feeling of yes-I-can-do-this when my writing is going well. That warning note that reminds me that my timetable won't always be like this - from next week, it will be back to normal - an average of - what? twelve hours a day given over to the day job and commuting to and from it. Look, I'm not complaining (note: obviously I'm complaining), but it's occurred to me a couple of times this week that I should definitely ensure that I'm managing a good block of writing EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. No matter what else is going on, no matter how tired / uninspired / comprehensively untalented I feel. But, yes, I already knew that. I've already told myself that. I've probably already told myself that on this blog.
So, yes, I'm just telling myself that again. And reminding myself that there will still be days when I don't feel like writing, when I just don't want to do it. But it's worth reminding myself that if I only have half a hour to write then - well. Then I can do what the hell I want in that half hour. And that includes not writing, and not having to feel guilty about it.
But the main thing is: I have an entire play to write this summer. And in the past three days, I managed to hack out a fairly decent first draft. For just this moment in time - I'm feeling pretty hopeful.
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