I had a great afternoon writing after a torturous morning. Then, suddenly, plot turns were coming thick and fast (could it have been the lubricating effects of a glass of wine at 1pm? gotta love school holidays!) and it wasn’t long before I’d written my one thousand words and it was coming down to the wire as I only had five minutes to get down to one of my fav restaurants to catch up with my date.
My date was none other than good writer mate Vanda. I told of her of aforementioned plot twists and she listened politely. Then, as her boys ate their lolly cake, asked a question. Like that. One. One question which has now propelled me into the stratosphere of excitement because what I didn't know but was there all along, I now know!!
Writing is so hard. Seriously, being a writer is very, very difficult. Okay, not so hard as other jobs I’ve had like working in shearing sheds or painting houses, or being a builders mate but definitely harder than being a waitress even with stroppy clients and teaching? Pfff – a breeze compared with the emotionally charged, ego scouring life of a writer.
Someone (and I can’t remember who so don’t ask me to reference) once said that to be a writer is to rip your heart from your chest and hold it before you as you walk through crowded streets. Wait. I said that. So, I agree with myself. Sometimes though, when you are walking those streets, you stop traffic and people gather around and kneel at your feet and sing songs of praise and your heart pumps hard and is fuller than it was moments before and you know the risk was worth it.
This is me right now. Today.