Am I getting boring, or do I just expect too much from myself and life? Driving to Wellingborough with my boss, we’re chatting away, and he asks me what I do when I’m not at work.
My mind went blank. What do I do? Obviously I told him that I was writing a book, but that really doesn’t sound very exciting. ‘Going to the cinema with friends’ is enjoyable, but again, hardly amazing. Gardening? DIY? Like, wow!
I suppose it’s a fact of life. I work full time, I have a little boy to look after in the evenings (hmm – I forgot to mention Lego-building as an after-work activity) and lack time and money to have an exciting hobby to talk about. Of course I think that writing a novel is exciting – I wouldn’t be struggling on with it if I wasn’t excited about it, but it doesn’t have the same ring to it as hang-gliding or kick-boxing.
I did try rock climbing as something to get me out and about a bit more. But I soon found out that working all day, cooking dinner, getting Josh ready for bed before my mum arrived to baby sit, then driving off to the climbing wall for a couple of hours of climbing wasn’t really going to work as a social activity, as I was totally shattered!
But, on a good note, I got a good half hour’s writing in tonight. The story seems to flow more easily now that I’ve re-structured the first few sections. I’ve still not set chapters as such – I’m working on ‘scenes’; much smaller chunks that move the story forward. I worked out that chapters were too big to concentrate on, and I found myself trying to get through them by ‘telling’ the story, rather than showing what is happening. I can usually finish a scene in a night or two.
It’s never going to find me a boyfriend (much to my mum’s dismay) but maybe the book is one of the best things I can do with my ‘spare’ time right now.