Yeah, despite what I told some of you last week, found myself oddly lacking in enthusiasm for writing fresh stuff over the weekend, so decided that I could at least make a start on typing up the existing 20K of MoulderingBook. (I did also write a couple of thousand fresh words onwards from the 20K). I made good progress, and typed up about 7K of the existing stuff, without getting too bogged down with fiddling. But somewhere along the way, the dratted Rampaging Doubts decided to pay a visit.
"This is tedious twaddle," they grumbled. "Jeez, would you stop repeating those three particular words; don't you have a vocabulary?!"
Is the beginning too slow? I wondered. Is this all really dull after all? Who on earth would want to read this crap anyway? Why am I wasting my time here? Who am I kidding?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not seeking comfort or reasurance. I know these feelings are par for the course; every Writer High is liberally interspersed with generous dollops of Writer Lows. But isn't it just so frustrating that those Rampaging Doubts insist on coming round uninvited like this?
Come lunchtime Sunday, I decided, to hell with it. I'm going to use the rest of my weekend for something less depressing instead. So I stripped the bark form a hawthorn bough (you'll find out why when that particular project is finished), watched some episodes of 'Sex and the City' on DVD, and drank hot chocolate.
And that's fine. See, one of the many lessons I've learned in recent years is that it's important for me to give myself permission NOT to write sometimes. It's easy to allow writing to swallow my free time and energy, and is has done so for long periods in the past, and that wasn't good for me.
I need balance and variety in my life. I need to read, write, walk in green spaces, spend time with other creative projects, and spend time doing nothing creative whatsoever. All work and no play makes Jenny a dull girl ...
.... hang on, isn't that a variation on a quote about a writer who becomes possessed by malign spirits ...?