I began writing a novel on 1st April 2020, and tonight, at 11pm, I typed the last two words – The End.
What a journey it has been. What started as a love story, turned into something quite different.
I competed the novel in 77,234 words, 34 chapters and a possible sequel on the cards.
I guess the most important thing for me whilst writing this novel was a loose plan, and a refusal to follow a process. I’m not one for forcing myself to write when I’m not feeling it, or building the writing muscle as I’ve heard it called. I don’t have a method, I’m prone to procrastinating, and I only write when it brings me pleasure.
I feel a sense of not quite knowing how to feel right now. Maybe tomorrow that’ll become clearer, but for now, I’m satisfied.
Today my poem Procrastination was published byThe Ogilvie – (Click on the link to see it live).
I wrote this poem on a day when I was supposed to be writing an academic essay. Clearly my mind wasn’t on the job.
Cardboard daylight Prods me through vertical blinds. I am slumped on an un-reclining recliner with warm-breath-blowback burning my cheeks,
my toes, curl like a fist on the carpet, as cold as the kitchen tiles. I cannot move. There is a pork and Apple loaf Baking in the oven Two hours too soon And a laptop on standby.
I am waiting I have been waiting for years For that phone-call, that chance But it will not come Not in this bitter cold dark Afternoon. Not in this room.
I need to put the light on But I won’t, The dogs will think they Can go out to play and I can’t bare the dampness, the half night day, That is turning all the Orange brick brown.
I am writing, or at least I am typing, anything except What I ought to write. But I will wait a wee bit longer. Until I am Kicked up the arse by the artificial light of night, when the start of time begins to run out. It is going to be a late one. Writing by light-bulb and shaded by the un-dusted cobwebs.