I’ve lost three months of my writing life to my day job. Or so I thought.
Working from early morning to late at night to launch a major project left my head in need of a few glasses of wine and my fingers loathe to venture near any keyboards.
Then I glanced into my writing folder. I knew I’d thrown together ideas, paragraphs, scenes and suggestions to tackle my work in progress, but was shocked to find almost 6000 words ready and waiting to be patch worked in.
Then I tracked down the scruffy notes scribbled on the back of train tickets, envelopes, scraps of paper. Even more words.
My task now is to assemble these ideas into one coherent flow. My only hope is these words don’t introduce whole new characters or plots. I have the vaguest idea in my head that one night after three too many glasses of wine, I had a Eureka moment.
Then there’s my other problem. I tend to find that whenever I reach the final stretch on any novel, a whole new idea grabs hold and wants to push its way through. I usually confine it to the waiting room, but I’ve found a couple of thousand words written for this too.
And now I’ve read them, I have ideas where it should go too.
I might go from nothing to show for the past few months to two novels ready for an edit by the end of the year.
But I’m not holding my breath.