43,049.
Prologue, four chapters and a snippet.
Just over 2 months since starting.
Monday 30 September 2013
Thursday 26 September 2013
Tuesday 24 September 2013
Why I started The Book...
Here is where I try not to just give that terrible, nose-wrinkling cliché "I've always had a passion for writing". Because obviously, that's true for almost every writer, but no one wants to say that because... just urgh. I'd love to have a brilliant, existential justification for starting The Book but there you go. I just want to write.
Primarily, I started writing because I don't want to do anything else. In May, I finished my education degree with not a lot more than a desperate desire Not To Be A Teacher. I can think of things I would like to become, careers I'd be proud to have. But every time, in the back of my head, I remember being fourteen and imagining writing, all the time, for a living. I walk into book shops and I imagine my name down the spine. I see book signings and picture myself behind the table. Its's always been there, this something I'll do one day. It felt like a certainty. One day I will write a book. But that was the point: one day. In the future, some time. Never an actuality.
So, after finishing my degree and spending a good three months going depressingly from unappealing job applications to pathetic, unsuccessful interviews, I remembered the career I really want. Here I am, with a job to get by with and enough spare time to set aside to this massive undertaking. If I wanted to become a writer, I needed to start somewhere. And I'd reached somewhere.
Chances are The Book will never see the light of day. Maybe the only person who'll ever read it will be me and maybe my boyfriend who has developed the tendency to read drabs of almost-sentences over my shoulder. But I have to try. I want to push myself to do it, to prove that if nothing else I have enough in me to write a whole book. Maybe I won't even do that much. But here I am, trying.
Primarily, I started writing because I don't want to do anything else. In May, I finished my education degree with not a lot more than a desperate desire Not To Be A Teacher. I can think of things I would like to become, careers I'd be proud to have. But every time, in the back of my head, I remember being fourteen and imagining writing, all the time, for a living. I walk into book shops and I imagine my name down the spine. I see book signings and picture myself behind the table. Its's always been there, this something I'll do one day. It felt like a certainty. One day I will write a book. But that was the point: one day. In the future, some time. Never an actuality.
So, after finishing my degree and spending a good three months going depressingly from unappealing job applications to pathetic, unsuccessful interviews, I remembered the career I really want. Here I am, with a job to get by with and enough spare time to set aside to this massive undertaking. If I wanted to become a writer, I needed to start somewhere. And I'd reached somewhere.
Chances are The Book will never see the light of day. Maybe the only person who'll ever read it will be me and maybe my boyfriend who has developed the tendency to read drabs of almost-sentences over my shoulder. But I have to try. I want to push myself to do it, to prove that if nothing else I have enough in me to write a whole book. Maybe I won't even do that much. But here I am, trying.
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