A New Start

Now I know you only come by to read my sparkling wit and wisdom, and that no one's interested in the progress of my writing, but did anyone see what I did in the sidebar there? Notice anything different about the word meters? Did you? Mmm?

Well, those of you who eagerly tune in to watch the colour faltering along pixel by pixel, will have noticed that since last May I have written only shorties – I have even subbed some, and am in great danger of impersonating real writers here – but shorties have only ever been part of what I want to do. I want to write novels too.

So, exactly how many words have I written since joining the Novel Race last year?

Ahem.
Next question please.

Lisa's parting words have shocked me into realising what I fraud I am: I'm not a writer who writes; I am a writer who procrastinates. Yet I still have the very chance that she has lost: To Finish The Bloody Book.

In truth, I have finished the book, but it's crap and I can't face the interminable rewriting that it needs to knock it into shape. Thus, I am shelving it, and starting again. God. Did I just say that?

Must have done. Because last night, I finally settled down to start novel 3, originally planned over two years ago. And now, if you take a little gander at that sidebar, you'll see 3,000 words already written.

Carpe Diem, and all that.

Sexy Trains and Committee Meetings

Saturday morning found me standing on the platform of Rugby station watching sexy Virgin trains (sleek, silver bullets with smoky windows). It was surreal. I could not equate the hoovering and toy-picking-up, which is my usual Saturday-morning pastime, with that railway smell, the feel of the wind, the hiss/whine/rumble of the trains. It was very exciting.

I love trains. I lived near a railway line as a child and the romance of travelling by rail has never left me. I'd always rather go by train than fly. That being said, south of London we have these horrid little electric jobs with double sliding doors and hard, hard seats. They stop everywhere, and are only marginally better than sitting on a rather boring fairground ride, only you don't have to keep hold of your candy floss.

But inter-city trains? Ooooh. North of Stafford we really picked up speed, thundering under the bridges and leaning into the corners. It was the closest I've been to riding a motorbike since I couldn't get into my leathers any more. We were going so fast that I half expected the guard to say, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we will shortly be beginning our descent into Crewe..."

The Novel-Racers' meet began a bit like a committee meeting, with fifteen of us sitting around a large square (black) table. It was only when someone suggested that, as no one had brought an agenda, perhaps we should get the drinks in. And so, we drank (varying amounts), we ate, but mostly we talked about writing. It was fab.

Six minutes hours later it was time to go home (although JJ and I managed to fit in a spot of shopping first). The ride home was equally enjoyable, although I had the added pleasure of my new (red) iPod Shuffle to gaze at, and the virtuous feeling of having bought a present for my babysitting sister too.

The Novel Race - They Let Me In!

As if posting my targets for 2008 wasn't enough of a commitment, I'm in the Novel Race [gulp].

I have committed to complete the first draft of Bully's Boy (which is novel no.2, and the sequel to no.1).

If I have time [ha ha ha] I will get serious about All For Fabien (novel no.3), and just in case I finish that one, I have up my sleeve ... [peers up sleeve] ... Going with the Flow (novel no.4)!

Now you might think that this is a bit optimistic, but I can type at nearly 65wpm, and get an hour-and-a-half every evening in which to write (assuming himself doesn't want supper, I've done all the washing, the children have put away their toys, etc.). So, allowing for a couple of evenings off a week, I should get three novels written in about, oh, ten weeks. Easy!

Anyone spotted the deliberate mistake yet?