It’s on the list. So there’s nothing I can do about it, other than get it done. It’s number 15 – write a book. Gulp.
It’s been burning away inside me like syphilis for years. I only mention syphilis because I just saw a programme about it, and apparently it makes you burn up pretty spectacularly. But I don’t have it. I don’t think anyway. Although I do get really hot in bed. And on the tube. Do I have syphilis? <goes online, types in symptoms, internet tells him he has cancer>
I’ve always loved writing. I remember when I was about eleven years old, and we had our first ever “career” chat at school. Bearing in mind that back where I came from you either entered the Army or entered a prison as a career path, the options didn’t exactly seem wide open to me. I can’t remember that chat – I’m sure it was suggested that I became a teacher (good holidays) – but I do remember going home that night and telling my mum I wanted to be a writer. Again, bearing in mind this was The North in the depressing late 80s, and my mum didn’t know many writers. Or, in fact, anyone who had ever actually moved out of the town we lived in. So her response of, “don’t be so bloody stupid – you want a proper job,” seems pretty reasonable.
Still, the want never left. Unfortunately, this isn’t the bit where I say “so from that day on, I typed. And I never stopped. And now, after my billion-selling series about a boy wizard I’m opening my own school for underprivileged kids who want to write.” This is the bit where I say, “and I still haven’t gotten round to it.”
I guess this is partly where the 36 at 36 has come from – my deep seated annoyance at having never accomplished the things I just assumed I would have done by now. One thing that I have accomplished, however, is the amazing ability to procrastinate like aboss. I look at other people who work in full time jobs and make short films in their spare time. Or have a successful YouTube channel, or run poetry workshops. That last one was a lie – I don’t even know what a poetry workshop is, let alone know someone that runs one. I’m not friends with people like that. I would sit at home, watching Sarah Beeny knocking down walls whilst pregnant thinking, ‘well I just don’t have the time to write a book/learn French/find out what a poetry workshop is – I work too hard and am too busy.’ Meanwhile a tiny voice in the back of my head is screaming, ‘YOU’RE NOT FUCKING BUSY, YOU’RE WATCHING SARAH FUCKING BEENY. IN FACT, I THINK I’VE EVEN SEEN THIS EPISODE BEFORE – THE COUPLE DON’T TAKE HER ADVICE AND END UP HAVING A REALLY SMALL BATHROOM.’ But no matter how loud that little voice screamed, I could just turn up the volume on the TV and ignore it. But no more.
The 36 at 36 list has to be completed, and just around the corner is NaNoWriMo. Which is a terrible acronym for National Novel Writing Month, which encourages you to scribble 50,000 words in a novel-shaped way in the 30 days of November. 50,000 words. In 30 days. I told a good friend that i was going to attempt this. Her reaction? “You’re too busy to do that, babes.” Well, you know what, yes I am, but so is everyone else who does it and yet they manage to, well, do it. So I’m going to give it a go. In two days time, November starts and so do I. I’ve had a seed of an idea for book that I’ve tried to start writing on three separate occasions. And every time, Sarah Beeny got in the way. And you know what, I might not complete 50,000 words, I might not finish it, and what I write might be utter, utter dog farts. But it’ll be a start. Wish me luck.
Oh, and in other news, I’m trying to drink my coffee with less sugar (gross) and am eating something called bircher muesli (looks gross, tastes nice). And Sarah Beeny, I love you – it’s not your fault (it is).
littledrinker 