In the past six days, I've worked on my novel everyday. This is key. It is absolutely imperative, when writing a novel, that the writer writes every single day. For everyday I miss, it takes three days to get back to where I was. I haven't written yet today but after posting this blog I'm going to, I promise.
If I keep a routine, I'm okay. Wake up in the mornings, write before work (and during work, if it's dreadfully slow--which it was not today). Open the restaurant, get things ready for service before I leave at five. Then, I spend the evenings and a good fraction of my weekends off fulfilling various social commitments: various lunches and dinners, shooting guns, studio visits, hair cuts and cocktail hours. It seems there's always something I've agreed to do. Tonight... I canceled plans with one friend, only to run into another on my way home. I don't even make it to my front door before getting sucked into Alligator Soul for bubbly and "snacks." I returned home in no real mood for working.
These things happen when living on Broughton Street. I don't have to make plans. I will be walking home, minding my own business, and heywhatdoyouknowwhatareyoudoingwhy
don'tyoucomesayhiEmily'sworkingjusthaveoneglassofchampagnewhydont'tyoueatdinner
I need to stop answering phone calls, start ignoring facebook messages and non-work related e-mails. Quit my job. Don't leave the house. Don't go on dates, don't hang out with friends and for the love of God, ignore those iPhone chimes.
Yeah but working and hanging out with friends gives you material to write about-- Others present the argument. That's true. But there's got to be a balance and I'm at the point now where I need to be fully focused on writing.
I have roughly two months to finish this draft. I'm a third of the way through.
"Hey what are you up to tonight?" one of my girlfriends texts as I'm writing this post.
This is going to be just as hard as I suspected.
Guiltily, I text her back, "Working on my novel. Plans tomorrow night?"
I suggest you move to Ohio. No friends, no phone calls, no social engagements, no job, and I have burrowed myself into this recluse lifestyle only to find that it makes writing the only option. All I do is write. Doubt my novels are any good, but they are getting better. This second one is heads above my first. I read Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn in like 3 days as research.
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