I decided after my last post that I would keep track of my progress with the writing, to document the journey until I can finally announce some good news (we're not there yet). Between my last post and this, I have not only been getting to grips with my new job but I've also moved house, so I've been juggling a hefty amount these past few months.
As a result I've mostly avoided Twitter. There is still a small part of me that shies away from it - inadequacy is a horrible feeling - and it doesn't feel like I have much to say. So my haunt instead has been Instagram. I find my release in nature; my ambles keep me sane. Creative minds often, I think, need an outlet and this is mine. I've been very lucky in finding somewhere in the countryside to live which can help me with this. It'll keep me going in the coming weeks as I stitch the novel back together again. While I do, I would prefer to show you a side of me which is honest, demonstrating that writing is not glamorous, that the whole process is painful and tedious on bad days and a blessed relief on the good. Most pictures I post of me in upcoming posts will be generally unfiltered and makeup-free, to prove my point that the life of a writer is a far cry from the glamour of Jackie Collins.
I should also say that my blog posts aren't going to be a practice in lyrical poetry. I've read some blogs that are beautifully worded, an almost-novel in themselves. I can't - and won't - do that. If anything those fabulous posts written by those fabulous authors make me feel even more insecure about my capabilities; if they can write like that in a blog post, as well as in their fiction, then I have no hope at all. While inspiring and admirable, it's simply not helpful to those who are still trying to make it. Perhaps what I'm going to write won't be helpful either, but it's a reality check, to show that us struggling writers aren't alone.
So. To start ...