I'm trying to write a novel in 50 days...

...and my child has a pet worm called Mr. Twinkles

It’s been one of those weeks where absolutely nothing has happened, and yet I seem to have had literally no time at all to think.

It rained. It rained some more. The ironing board broke, and Terry and I each ordered a new one without consulting each other, so we ended up with two ironing boards. I did a pilates workout, and could barely stand up the next morning. Someone on Neighbours almost died by sinking into a giant vat of corn. Max came home from school with a ‘pet’ worm in a plastic bag:

Everyone say hi to Mr. Twinkles!

At first we assumed this must be part of some kind of particularly weird school project, and that all the kids in his class must have come home with a worm, but no, it turns out Max just found Mr. Twinkles in the playground, and made such a fuss about bringing him home that one of the teachers found a bag for him. Thanks, that teacher!

Fortunately, we managed to relocate Mr. Twinkles to the garden without too much fuss from Max, but, I mean, tell me your child wants a pet without telling me your child wants a pet, right?

And, at some point in the middle of all of this, I realized I had just 50 days to write my next book. Or, actually, 42, by the time you read this. Whoops.

It’s my own fault. I mean, I was the one who set the pre-order for the thing, so I obviously knew when the deadline was. For reasons that remain unknown even to me, however, I then proceeded to spend the entire summer with my head firmly buried in the sand, telling myself I could not possibly be expected to write a Christmas book during the summer holidays: or, actually, to do any real work at all during the summer holidays, given that we were away for three weeks of them, and had Max (and usually a collection of his friends) around for the rest.

“I need peace and quiet to weave my writerly magic,” I told myself, nodding sagely at my own wisdom. "A period of time when I know no one will interrupt me to ask for a snack, or require me to settle a dispute that’s sprung up over Minecraft. I need money, and a room of my own.”

But I did not have any of those things. Especially not the money, but that’s a whole other post. So I tinkered around a bit with my blog (Which is now getting even LESS traffic than it was before I started the tinkering: follow me for more blogging tips, folks!) instead, safe in the knowledge that once Max went back to school, I’d have plenty of time to write the book.

Then Max went back to school, and I realised that, whoops, I actually only had 50 days to write the stupid book. And now it’s down to 42 days¹, and here I am, not writing the book, because I’m writing this newsletter about writing the book instead.

It’s okay, though: I have been writing every day. As of this morning, I’ve written exactly 12,105 words; which isn’t great, to be honest, but which still puts me on track to be finished on time. And I can do this. I know I can. I wrote something like 63,000 words in 30 days for National Novel Writing Month last year. So approximately 68,000 words in 42 days is definitely doable. It’s just… well, I don’t want to.

Honestly, the very LAST thing I feel like doing right now is writing this book. And I feel like that’s something a lot of author’s don’t talk about much. There’s this idea that writers write only when they’re ‘inspired’, at which point the words just come flowing out of them, like Jack Kerouac feverishly typing On the Road in three weeks.

Actually, though, I think a lot of us do it just by sitting down at our desks every day (Or on our sofas, or in a picturesque coffee shop, or wherever it is that other authors write. Me, I have to have a ‘proper’ desk, which is in a home office with a decent chair and a computer with a big screen. I feel like this is a bit more ‘officey’ than most people imagine my setup when I tell them I’m a romance author, and I suspect I’m letting the side down a bit by not being surrounded by scented candles, and, I dunno, maybe a cosy blanket or something? Definitely something that could be described as ‘cosy’ for sure…) and then remaining there until we’ve dutifully cranked out the requisite number of words. And then doing that tomorrow, and the next day, and for all of the rest of the 42 days that it’ll take to get this done.

That doesn’t sound very ‘creative’ — or even very interesting, of course. And, honestly? It doesn’t feel it, either. But, according to my writing software, if I just show up every day and write 1,448 words, by the end of those 42 days that are left, I’ll have the first draft of a book.

So, that’s what I’m going to do. Or try to do, anyway. Because, the thing is, I really kind of need this ‘author’ thing to work. I need it to start earning me enough to live off, without constantly worrying about being sent to the work house — which is, once again, occupying a lot of my thoughts lately.

And the good new is, it almost is working. My books are selling. (I’m absolutely terrified I’ve just jinxed it by saying that, obviously…) This week I’ve had three of my best days ever in terms of revenue. For the first time since I started doing this, I can actually imagine the possibility of it working out for me. But not quite yet… which is why I need to get this book written. And also why I need to bring this week’s newsletter to a close, so I can go and get on with doing that.

Just 67,895 words to go, folks…

Until next week,

1. By which I mean working days - I don’t/can’t write on the weekends, and we also have two sets of school holidays coming up which I won’t be able to work through either, so I don’t count those…