Writing a novel and moving home have many similarities. They both seem like wonderful ideas to start with but, as the story grows and the boxes multiply, they begin to feel like summitless mountains.
As the plot of my novel starts to resemble a tangled web of disparate ideas my once methodical packing turns into a frenzied rush of throwing anything into any box. Days become weeks and the formally precious marker pens lay abandoned on the floor while the computer sits, untouched, awaiting my return to normality.
Normality has yet to return.
Soon unpacking begins, along with frequent outings to soulless stores that seem to fry the brain even more, pushing any morsels of creativity left further out to sea.
The chaos has abated, for now, and I'm back to writing. I at least wrote this.
Tuesday 13 July 2010
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