Tuesday, 22 November 2011

Tomorrow is another day.

    Up early again, to get some more writing done, this time before 5am. The mornings are my best time, when my mind is still fresh, before the trials and rigours of an ordinary life tread all over it like pair of jack-boots.
    But are all mornings writing mornings, or do I just try to cultivate them that way? I am up, I made the effort, so stick some words into the document in the name of completion and subsequent stardom.
    This morning was too early, 3am in fact, so I read for a while before getting up. Then it’s a quick look at twitter, facebook, last night’s emails. These days I get more email at night than during the day. I blame the Americans for that.
    OK, settle in, read what I wrote yesterday, refresh the story. As I try to pick up where I left off, I spot typos, re-editing required. Another half-hour gone.
    My switching on the kettle has woken the better half, and she pads dreamily into the kitchen, via the bathroom, rubbing her sleepy eyes and reaching for a tea-bag. I try to ignore her, I need my peace, that’s why I got up so early. She takes her cup back to bed, thankfully without conversation.
    The kettle smells of chloride, so I de-scale it using Coco-cola. It’s nearly 6am. Then I yawn and rub my own eyes.
   OK, to write, come on brain, let's get imaginative. This is a children’s story, about a piglet. It has to be fun; funny even. I remember once reading a biography of the comedian, Eric Morcombe, and him saying that people used to sidle up to talk to him, and expect him to be funny. And he wasn’t, only when he had a script to work from.
   You see, writing isn’t scripted, well mine isn’t anyway. I think up a story, with a rough idea of how many words it will be, create some characters, wind them up and let them loose. Invariably, they start running, building, climbing and laughing, all of their own accord. I just fuel them, every morning, fresh from a night filled with un-contaminated dreams, and off they head, blindly towards the end of the book. The end. Polite applause.
    Except, do they always tread the right path? Or, just possibly, some mornings, maybe the brain isn’t really there at the races. On those days, maybe the plot should just stay in bed instead of bumbling on through the undergrowth?
    Yesterday, a new character turned up purely by chance, totally unexpectedly popping up from behind a hedge, I quite liked that, quite liked him in fact. Then, the cat woke up, the dogs barked, daytime things started to happen and I went to work. Writing stint over, 2600 words done and dusted before breakfast.
    Now, this morning, I am not sure who this character is anymore. He wasn’t in the script, because there isn’t one. And, today, he doesn’t want to dance.
So, for once, I shall send him back to bed, and write a blog instead. Time to go and sort out the kettle, have a bath and let him rest.
After all, in the words of Scarlett O’Hara, tomorrow is another day.

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