I was never one of
nature’s addicts. I smoked spasmodically up to thirty odd years ago then gave
it up without a problem when a TV programme showed the damage I was doing to my
innards. I once smoked a joint in Amsterdam and such is my abysmal tolerance to
drugs that I became almost catatonic. My wife thought I was having a stroke.
Luckily she was having a joint herself so she managed to see the funny side. I
drink, but not to any excessive degree, in fact I thought I was immune to any
sort of addiction until I began writing. This was about seventeen years ago.
Since then I’ve written sixteen books published in print, many by mainstream
publishers Little,Brown, plus another six e-books, several, so far unsold,
scripts, some short stories and a few books started but abandoned.
In
short, I write because I’m addicted to writing. I’m a retired builder who
always had a couple of sidelines in stand-up comedy and free-lance painting. My
writing day begins when the mood and the idea takes me, which can be any time
during the 24 hour day. Many’s the time I’ve woken up in the dead of night with
an idea I knew I must get down lest I forget it when I get up. I go next door
into my writing room―I call it the office ―with the intention of getting the
basic idea down and no more. I emerge hours later when the sparrows are singing
outside and my wife’s wondering how come she’s got the bed to herself. It’s
during these illicit hours when I’m at my most creative. I find my best ideas
take shape when my mind is completely at rest, lying in bed having just woken
up in the dark, the world is quiet and my brain is giving my ideas its complete
and undivided attention.
I’ve
tried writing these ideas down on a bedside pad, in the dark, reaching out from
under the duvet with a sleepy arm, hoping my pencil is moving in the right
direction and ending up trying to translate a page of hieroglyphics the
following morning.
I
play golf twice a week and never allow that to interfere with my writing. It’s
a game for which a have a great love, but little talent. I need the exercise, I
enjoy the camaraderie, the fun and the rare feeling of triumph when I hit a
good shot. As a stand-up comedian I still do after-dinner work, perhaps a dozen
gigs a year. I don’t paint much anymore. I intend to but haven’t yet got around
to it, maybe I’m afraid it’ll take up too much of my time. Painting’s addictive
as well.
So,
I suppose my writing day is between the hours when I’m not doing anything else.
There are 168 hours in a week, golf takes up maybe a dozen of these; sleep
takes up 50 to 60, being a loving and dutiful husband, father and grandfather
takes up time I can’t put a quantity on; leisure time is important although I
regard writing as part of my leisure time so, somewhere within this 168 hours,
I reckon there are about 40 or so hours when I find time to sit at my computer,
happy as Larry (whoever Larry is). When the muse is upon I have been known to
write for six or seven hours nonstop―as many as ten thousand words in a day.
Others days I spend hours just doing corrections and improvements, not
advancing the book a single word, just making it better. This is equally as
satisfying. Some days, if the ideas aren’t there I don’t bother to write at
all. I don’t worry because I know the words are in there somewhere, just not
ready to come out that’s all. This is probably why I don’t suffer from writer’s
block. Not sure I believe in it, to be honest.
Quite
often, on my way to bed I’ll tell my wife I’m just nipping into the office to
switch off the computer. Then I make the mistake of sitting down to take a
quick look at what I’ve done that day and perhaps make the odd correction... perhaps
more. After I’ve spent ten minutes or so by my writer’s inner clock I’ll switch
off and go to bed. My wife will wake up and ask me what I’ve been doing in
there for the last two hours. She’s a very understanding woman who realises
that two hours of highly concentrated creativity can be compressed into ten
mental minutes. At least that’s my excuse.
