How not to write a book

View from favourite seat in Cafe Nero

Monday morning, and I was so full of resolutions for this week: healthy eating (a priority after seeing recent photos … a major aaarrrgghh there), strict writing timetable, admin under control etc. etc.  I’m sure you know how it goes. 

But it is such a beautiful day, things went astray right from the start.  I was lured out to coffee in town, where I remembered the photos and regretfully eschewed my usual pain au chocolat.  

It is too warm for winter boots, but my toe nails are unpolished at the moment (a job for this afternoon) so I wore my favourite black pumps, forgetting that they are so old and sloppy now they are impossible to walk in, in spite of heel grips, sole inserts and so on.  This obviously meant that I had to stop on the way back to buy new shoes.  There is a limit to how exciting black pumps can be, but I think these are rather sweet with their discreet bow, and, even better,  they sure are comfy. 

Blue skies in York, March 2012

Then I had to go and buy salad for all the healthy eating I’m going to be doing, and – oh, look! – the morning has gone.  But I HAVE started writing, and indeed, am ahead of my timetable, which is something of a relief.  I have turned my back on the siren call of the index cards, and am just writing a rough draft, which is what I should have been doing all along.  I’m not worrying about anything except getting the words on the page for now and am aiming for a 50,000 draft at first, with half for the story in the present and half in the past.  

I’ve started in the past, and if I don’t try and think about how much there is still to be done, I can even enjoy seeing how the story is starting to emerge.  That is if I can ignore the sunshine outside my window which is just begging to be walked in …  This is how books don't get written.