On handing in the book
the ego! she's essential to writing but oh so boring
It is two in the morning. I finished my first ever novel just before midnight, frantically typing in my bed until I was satisfied with what I had done. The words ‘finished’ and ‘satisfied’ are used loosely here - I already have thoughts on the edits, notes on things to improve. There is more work coming my way. But for now, it is done and I am ok with, proud of it, protective of it. It is the result of two years of brain space, thinking, planning, advocating, and three months of actual writing. I began properly writing, pen-to-paper, on August 20th, I finished on November 18th. Three months of work sits on my laptop - no back up, like a fool.
And now I cannot sleep.
The adrenaline must be pumping through my veins, because after weeks of sleepy-staring at my laptop, I am wide awake. WIDE awake. I’ve read for over an hour (The House of Impossible Beauties - very very good, very sad). I’ve been trying all the tricks - the hot drink, the breathing techniques, the counting technique, whatever. My partner sleeps soundlessly beside me and I move gingerly. My side of the bed squeaks. By two I have given up on sleep for now. She’s a cold, cruel bitch. So I do what has by now become muscle memory: I pull open my laptop and I start to write.
Funnily enough, I am always at my most creative when it is least convenient. I have the best idea for new projects when I’m slogging through current ones. My urge to paint, or draw, or sew or whatever the fuck it is, burns strongest when I have deadlines to meet. Sometimes when I am trying to sleep, I end up writing. In a few days, I will have to start working on a new literary project, one that I suspect will challenge me, becuase it will involve writing to a specific brief, and I have never been very good at that. But it will be exciting, and rewarding, and most importantly, it keeps me writing. At this point in my life, that is the point.
I thought I would feel incredible when I finished the first draft - and I did feel great! But I had spent the past few weeks imagining what that might feel like, and my imagination is pretty strong, so there was an undercurrent of anticlimax to the whole thing. One of the (many) things about writing is that it requires a tremendous amount of ego. Tremendous! A curse and a blessing! Blah blah blah! You have to think about yourself a lot, especially if you think of your writing as an extension of yourself, which I do. And in the days leading up to a big deadline, you become the centre of the world. You and The Work - everything becomes solely about that. People have asked me repeatedly when the book is due, or which book I’m working on, and I am briefly surprised that they don’t remember the details of the Most Important Thing In The World Right Now. I become very boring - making jokes about the writing whilst not wanting to talk about the writing, turning down plans because of ‘the book’, saying shit like, “URGH, I only managed two thousand words today.” Insufferable. And at risk of sounding like a dick, it does feel like a haze descends upon you where it’s just you and the work, everything else temporarily vacates the premises. When I’m not doing The Work I am thinking about doing The Work, feeling guilty for not doing The Work or talking about The Work. The ego is in charge: she had to be, otherwise I would never write a goddamn word, because I think too much. Even now, I have to resist the desire to open up scrivener and go back into my draft and start the edit, fix pieces that I am unsure of or that I rushed through. But I won’t do this, because a good edit requires a little distance, and because I am lucky to work with good editors that I trust who need to see the work too. It’s 2:18. I would like to go to sleep, I really would!
Here’s a list of things I can do, now that I have handed in the novel:
Unpack my winter wardrobe: I live in a small flat and have to switch over my summer/spring and my autumn/winter clothing for it to all fit in the wardrobe. My linen and flimsy cotton dresses are currently hanging in there, and it is too cold for them - I yearn for a turtleneck
Read more books! I have The Bag of Excitement (more on that soon) to dive into, which has been sitting in my storage cupboard for weeks now, untouched. I can’t fucking wait
Finally watch Colin from Accounts, season two: If you haven’t watched this show you should 100% watch this show. The terrible name almost made me skip it and I am so glad I didn’t. It’s an Australian TV show about a nursing student and a brewery owner who accidentally injure a dog (Colin, from accounts) and must now care for it together. Season two has been sitting in iplayer for at least a month now, and I could use a binge
Go back to the gym: I will not do this so let’s just move on
A shit ton of life admin: boring, private, irrelevant
Socialise again: yes please! I would like to be fully present in the moment and also I would like to not drag myself home after social events and open my laptop. And I really need to see my family.
Scroll mindlessly on social media: I already do this but at least now I can do it guilt-free
Do a big clear out: there’s a lot of stuff in my flat that I own but don’t really use or display. Some of it is necessary but if I don’t need, see, or use it, why do I own it? I’ve been thinking a lot about consumption habits lately and how to separate self-worth from stuff. Of course it’s nice to have things, but I think in the past few years I’ve fallen prey to some mindless consumer behaviour and I’d like to change that a bit. Ethically, it's not sitting well
Work on other stuff: I’m working on something new for the substack, I have other writing projects, I have podcasts, ALL of which I tinker with whilst writing, but all of which are currently requiring lots of attention. Which I would very much like to give! It was just, you know. The Book.
Focus on ABLOC promo: Oh yes! I have a short story collection, A Beautiful Lack of Consequence, coming out on March 20, and I am so excited about it! Promoting a book is a weird experience but it needs to be done, and I have work do to.
My job that pays the bills: sure/fine/whatever
Self care: it’s time to extract myself, with the patience and delicacy of my mother listening to me whine about my life, from the very bad habits I have had to cultivate to write at the pace I needed: no writing through pain, proper nutrition, less time on screens, actually responding to messages
Get the fuck to sleep: I mean. It’s 2:42!
It’s 2:42. I think I can feel the eyelids drooping.
A quick favour. I love writing these posts, and I intend to do them for free for as long as I can. If you enjoyed reading this, forward it to a friend (or three) who you think might like it too. It helps massively, because validation from strangers is truly the only thing that makes the horrors bearable for me.