My new novel is not going well. It doesn't help that I haven't yet established any kind of routine. So far, all I've had is weekends and, apart from the first weekend when I felt elated just to get started, they have not proved particularly fruitful. I've taken a week off work this week to try and get started but even that has been thwarted - it's the first day back at school after half term and my daughter has decided to feel ill and stay at home. Call me selfish, call me what you like, but sometimes as an adult you just want a bit of Me Time - I get VERY little and I was SO looking forward to some time when I just don't have to talk to anyone. Not talking to anyone is quite conducive to the creative process, I've found, but of course, it's virtually impossible. Secondly, the hammering and drilling in the flat downstairs is ongoing. It's very possible they will never end. And reading what I've written so far......I'm starting to feel a smidgen of despair. It really is very bad. Sometimes I wish that instead of a writer, I was a truck driver. Not much need to talk to anyone then, either.
I live in Bloomsbury.
Diary of a