writing

Writing is like painting a still life. There is what it should look like and there is what I am capable of painting. I know how it should look, how the colours should blend. I can see the outline of shadows and the glare of light. I can see it but recreating it, pinning it down and forcing it to paper is quite another thing.

The added difficulty is of course that I can't actually see it, only imagine it. The story that I have envisaged poses a question and it is my task to answer it, working through problems of words and character, slowly drawing out its true form which has been there all along waiting for me to wake up and realise it. It nags and it tugs and it never fully stops hassling until it's perfect, and of course it's never perfect.

It puts me on edge. In the way I used to be when I was at university - there is always something I should be doing, always a puzzle to unravel. I can never fully relax or forget, like a forgotten name on the tip of my tongue, my mind is rolling it and prodding it, trying to solve the problem.

I love it and I hate it and I'm not remotely convinced I'm capable of writing another book, even though I know it's there, waiting patiently for me to write it.

It should also be noted that my first book is far from finished, I'm just waiting for a kindly editor to come along and tell me what to do.