Happy Endings: Starstruck and Starbucks
How do you trick yourself into writing?
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No diary again this week because I’m still editing/rewriting. I did go to Starbucks on Monday with the idea of just bashing the whole thing out, like I see other authors do, but I just don’t think I can work like that. I have to go gently, stopping before I want to stop so that I want to come back to it the next day.
So I’m making progress. Slower than I’d like, but progress.
I have a few tricks to make myself write and one is that I set an alarm for each hour (i.e. 9am, 10am, etc.) and when that goes off, I set a timer and write for 15 minutes, making a note of how many words I do each time. This has worked well in the past.
This weekend was meant to be my weekend off. My boys go to their dad’s every other weekend and I try not to work. (When we first split up and I realised I’d have every other weekend free, I was so excited! I was all the world is my oyster! I can see friends, I can go on city breaks! It has not turned out that way, because a) I am skint, and b) whenever the weekends come around, I just want to do nothing at all.)
But this weekend, I really want to try to finish this book. When I first had the idea, I sent three chapters to my agent saying “it might be worth sending out sooner rather than later.” That was 24 September last year, ffs. So I really want it to be done before September comes back around. (Which is, inexplicably, in twelve days.)
Anyway. So. This morning, 15 mins to start felt like too much. So I started with 5 mins. And then 10 mins. The next sesh is 15 mins. And after each one, I get a reward. (First reward was an episode of Taskmaster. Second reward was an episode of Starstruck, which I am rewatching in preparation for the new series, starting on the 28th. If you haven’t watched it yet, get on it, it’s wonderful.)
Okay, next alarm is about to go off, so I’ll be heading back to work. But please let me know how you trick yourself into writing. (If you don’t have to trick yourself, if it all just flows out of you and you’re not even crying, please keep it to yourself.)
Again, nervy posting this, but that’s a very good reason to do it! Please don’t tell me if this couldn’t possibly ever happen for whatever reason. It’s fiction, it’s fine. (Probably.)
I’m at my desk again the following morning when my agent rings again and this time I answer it. I can’t avoid her forever, much as I’d like to and maybe if I tell her I—
“It’s not about the book,” she says before I’ve even said hello.
“Oh,” I say. “Good. I mean, I’m working on it right now and—”
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