I can tell people I’m a writer without wincing these days. I’m nearly done with the first draft of my novel (actually, it’s in that awkward place just before nearly done, but never mind that). I have written guideline documents for people wanting to help the refugees in Calais, and across Europe.
And today was a perfect day for writing. The wind cold outside, but the house warm. No jobs looming over my head (well, apart from the normal ones). Only a teensy bit tired. (That would be on account of the weekend). Perfect day for writing, I tell you. Perfect. Except for, you know, the writing part.
Maybe because I spent 3 hours yesterday putting together the best Google Form That Ever Existed. Maybe because I’m tired. Or maybe I’m coming down with a cold, maybe I have too many projects. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. Maybe there is no maybe. All that matters is that the latest guide is not getting written. Nor is the novel. And all I can think is, today I can’t do anything.
Oh, and maybe I really do have a cold coming on. My nose is all blocked up, and I can’t smell my nice herbal tea. And you know, winter.
I could sit here and moan about how I am never going to get the novel written, how terrible my writing is, and convince myself that one perfect writing day wasted is the absolute end of the world. Except it’s not. It’s one day when I’ve had a hard few weeks and I’m still thinking about my novel and I tried and even if I only wrote two sentences it still counts.
So today, two sentences make me a writer. That’s good enough. Anything else is a bonus.