Yesterday, under the steam of desire to do something for myself, I made a re-start on my long-abandoned novel. I printed the final 52 pages (out of 108) and started to read back on myself. Reacquainted myself with the characters and delved back into the plot. Made some edits with pen and had a long hard think about where it’s all going- a question to which I confess I still have no answer.
Today? I have written over 1000 words, driven by the will to see what happens to my characters. I’m one of those fanciful writers who believes that the characters take on lives of their own and drive the plot only with support from me.
Writing is my me-time, something I have struggled to regain over the last few months. Writing is something that holds me captive, takes me somewhere else. There are similarities between myself and my characters, and some of their history takes me backwards. For the most part, though, I am tumbling forward, rolling with their punches to make something I can enjoy. The only thing is that, as with reading, as with so many things, there are not enough hours in the day.