March come with a cough and a sneeze, and a pray that this awful cold will disappear soon. Although physically I am not feeling at my best, I would say that my brain is hyper active and very creative - it is just a shame that my body can't keep up at the moment.
March brings with it hope, hope that the weather will finally get brighter, the nights will get longer and that we might feel that we have a bit more time on our hands to do things. Although in my case, I need to get a little bit more organised, as I have had some diary misfunctions lately that have left me feeling guilty. Also, this damn cold just encourages me to slump infront of the television, which only leaves me disappointed in myself for wasting valuable spare time.
It was funny this week, I was reading a blog of a fellow writer, and I could wholeheartly agree that it is easy to say that you are going to do things, but a lot harder to actually make something happen. The goals of writing for yourself are different to the work deadlines and are easier to break. I am a week later in finishing my characterisation piece for my novel, but there will be no harsh words said to me, as it is on my timescales. It is good, but it is also sad that we sometimes loses the power to motivate ourselves to follow our dreams, because real life takes over.
Recently, my quest to move away from being a womble was dented by the arrival of my father carrying a box, four folders, a childhood doll and a horse. Remains of my childhood coming out of a mouse ridden attic. The folders were filled with Julia Boxer's short stories - everything from an alien from Pluto to the Down with Swots Bridge. With my boyfriend literally shuddering with fear of even more paper entering our flat, I made a rash promise that I would sit and type up all these stories into the computer so that they can go into the time machine. Some would say that I should just throw them out, but they are part of my development of a writer and of a teenage coping with the world around me. Perhaps one day, I will be able to share them with my niece and nephew or my own children, but what ever happens to them they are too precious to just find a black bag after all this time.
But the trouble, with typing, editing, sorting through the ramblings of a teenage girl, is that all this work goes on behind close doors. No one is enjoying my writing, because it is all locked away and as a writer I find myself talking to myself, living on coffee and zoning out of everything around me. It sounds a bit lonely, but I just end up talking to all my characters in my book.
Seriously though before somebody puts me in a straight jacket, I have been thinking about how to make the writing a bit more mobile and viral rather just me sitting in an ever increasing junk room and there just might be an event being planned... watch this space folks.
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