I’ve been writing almost every day for about a year and a half now. Even when I missed a day, it was mostly because I was too unwell to write, not because I consciously chose not to. I even wrote when I was in hospital.
Well, after sending what I hope is the final final FINAL draft of the first book to my agent, and before starting on first re-write of my second book, I thought I’d have a break. Take two weeks off, catch up on reading that wasn’t research, watch some TV.
Well, the first thing that happened was that my health crashed. I’m not particularly healthy, but once I sat back to relax, I just became very ill. Then, once I got well again, and could get back to the reading and TV, I found I didn’t know how to relax. I didn’t know how to read without tying it to my book, or how to watch a film without feeling guilty I hadn’t written.
I appear to have become utterly addicted to writing. I crave it, as a drug, even when I have reason to leave it alone for a while. I’m longing for the feel of the pen in my hand again.
I’m going to persevere for the next two weeks though. I need the clarity of vision that stepping back from the page will give me. I need to let my head clear a little, not be quite so frenetically filled with my story. I need a rest, however difficult I find it.
But the day I start work again is a special day, marked with a gold star in my calendar.