Diary of a wannabe novelist
Week one: Cracks in my foundation, shopping hell, and Chesney Hawkes derail my writing plans
If you missed last weekend’s piece, I’ve set myself the challenge of writing a novel in three months. To keep myself motivated, I’m sharing a midweek post, updating you on my progress (or as is the case this week, lack of progress). Thanks so much for your support.
Saturday 29 March
Life is hectic, and sometimes I find myself craving calm. This morning, despite a late night and struggling to sleep, I wake early and run. The sun is shining and after a week at my desk, it is great to be outside breathing in the fresh air. It is a lovely calming start to the weekend.
Quick shower and breakfast, then I’m in the car, heading to Holmfirth for a coffee with a local author I’ve been working with through my day job. I plan to give myself a full hour for the 35-minute journey, but as always, I get distracted. By the time I pull off the drive, I have only 35-minutes to get there. ‘Don’t panic,’ I tell myself, hitting the pedal and speeding up the street.
Ten minutes later, I’m gaining time. ‘Just don’t go the wrong way,’ says the voice in my head and, as soon as the thought enters my mind, I’m turning onto the motorway, driving north towards Leeds.
‘Shit! I’m going the wrong way.’ I say this out loud, because I’m going the wrong shitting way!
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Quickly, I try to engage my brain to plan an alternative route. I swerve off at the services to take a cut through that only the locals know about. Cortisol is whizzing through my body at such a rate, I can’t compose myself enough to remember where the cut through actually is.
Back onto the motorway, still heading north. I take a deep breath, turn off at the next junction so I can double back. I can make up the time. It’s a national speed limit road. Except the car in front is doing 30 and I can’t pass. I watch the clock on the dashboard—the minutes disappearing.
Miraculously, I arrive in Holmfirth on time. It’s going to be fine—just don’t take any more wrong turns. I speed towards the garden centre only to find it’s the wrong one. So much for a calm start to the weekend.
When I finally arrive at the right garden centre (thankfully, only a few (ish) minutes late), the author I’m meeting is browsing in the shrub section. She is very polite and understanding about my incompetence. We spend a lovely few hours chatting about books, writing and life.
Return home (not getting lost), sort the horse, pick up my husband and then drive to Meadowhall. I am not a shopper. If I had a list of the top ten things to do on a Saturday in South Yorkshire, Meadowhall would be a generous 297th. But my sister’s birthday is coming up and I need to get her a present. If I’d been better organised or even thought about it, I could have bought her a shrub.
Meadowhell is busier than ever. ‘I will stay focused,’ I tell my husband. ‘Get what we need and get out.’
End up in the North Face shop buying a ‘mountain ready’ jacket, just in case I have to scale a mountain anytime soon, then go to Waterstones. Browsing and relaxing in my happy place, my stress levels start to lower. A woman chats to me, recommending The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. Love it when I get chatting to fellow bookworms. This one should be on commission—she’s very persuasive.
I’m still in the fiction section when a message from my Auntie Karen from America pings to my phone to tell me she is reading and loving Nora Ephron’s Heartburn, and she’s been chatting to my mum about it. Decide to buy it for Mum for Mother’s Day. Such is the popularity of this novel that 42 years after its release, it still has its own display.
‘Imagine writing a novel that does so well,’ I say to Chris. ‘How amazing would that be?’
Chris nods and smiles, aware of the struggle I have finding time to write, never mind write anything as wonderful as Nora Ephron’s books.
I stand in the queue, waiting to pay, wondering what Nora (had she still been alive and even met me) would advise about juggling life and writing. The imaginary Nora in my head does not have time to make any suggestions, because the bookseller waves me to the till and starts chatting about Kristin Hannah and how good she is.
‘Historical fiction is not usually my thing,’ I explain. ‘But I enjoyed The Women, so I’m giving this one a go.’
Before we make it out of Meadowhell, I stop at the bathrooms. When I look in the mirror, there’s a strand of hair crossing my forehead, down the side of my right eye and the top of my cheek. I try to brush it away, but it won’t budge. On closer inspection, I realise it’s not a hair, but a crack in my face. I silently curse the harsh lighting illuminating all my flaws and leave.
Intend to work on my novel when we get home, but it’s late and the shopping experience has drained the creativity and life out of me. I don’t write a word. Not one.
Sunday 30 March
The clocks have changed, going an hour forward, which means I feel like I’m playing catch up for most of the day. I spend three hours first thing working on my Substack, before driving to Holmfirth again (not going the wrong way) to my sister’s house to celebrate her birthday and Mother’s Day.
The day off yesterday obviously did my imagination good because ideas fly into my head. As soon as I arrive, I grab my phone and send a quick email note to myself, getting all the ideas down before my memory wipes them forever.
Family time is lovely but after an hour, I get a pang that I should leave and do some work. Talk myself out of it, stay and have fun.
Monday 31 March
I love Mondays. The start of a new working week always brings with it extra energy and positivity and I usually spring out of bed to 5am Writers’ Club. But today, the alarm jolts me from my sleep, sending my heart rate soaring. For 10-minutes I stay in bed, debating with myself.
‘Do I stay in bed and go back to sleep? Or do I get up and write my novel? If I stay in bed, am I giving up on myself and my novel?’ In the end, the brain chat is too much, and it’s easier to get up and get to work.
I spend one hour and 37 minutes on my novel, and don’t want my writing time to end. It does, and I am dragged kicking and screaming into my daily life.
After work, I have a Zoom meeting with my mentor. ‘There are a lot of projects in my head,’ I tell her. ‘I’d like a plan for the year.’
I go through all the books that I’ve started writing and would like to finish. All of them. It takes a good 25-minutes. After I’ve dumped the contents of my head onto her, she pauses, takes a breath.
‘So, let me check, you’re still doing all this around a full-time job?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘It feels like a lot,’ she says.
‘I know.’
There’s not much else I can say to that. I have a lot of ideas and projects and not enough time. Carrying them around in my head is hard, painful at times, and I need to make them happen. Between us, we come up with a plan for the next year, breaking it down into spring, summer, autumn and winter, giving me a focus for each season.
While I chat to my mentor, Chris is in the kitchen, rustling up a healthy quiche (without the pastry) for tomorrow for my lunch. Except, he’s done it without the key ingredient of eggs. ‘We only had one egg left,’ he says when I finish my call. ‘So, I’ve put some extra milk in and, well…it’s not looking good, but it might be okay.’
I go to bed, excited about the writing projects, less so about tomorrow’s lunch.
Tuesday 1 April
I wake up at 4.15am, which is far too early to get up. I close my eyes and will myself back to sleep, just for 45-minutes. Wake up three hours later. There’s no time to write.
I start a plank challenge for Cancer Research UK. The aim is to plank for two minutes every day for the month of April. I thought it would be easy. I thought wrong. After two minutes of huffing and puffing, holding my abs tight and supporting my body weight on my arms, I struggle to lift the kettle.
At lunch, I eye the husband’s quiche with caution but tuck in anyway, and it’s delicious. Who knew quiche without eggs and pastry would be so good?
In the evening, I squeeze in a quick run and then have an online event with House of Colour about spring-summer style. I wrote a few weeks ago about losing my style and this is part of my effort to find it again. The other women are well-dressed and perfectly polished. I stumble into the call with my post-run sweaty and sporty look. I am a work in progress.
Overall, it’s a busy day. I scribble a few notes in the spaces in between work, running and style class, but that is all.
Wednesday 2 April
Up and at it at 5am writing club. Not working on my novel, though. Instead, I focus on this week’s Substack and spend a wonderful one hour and 45-minutes tapping away at the kitchen table, fuelled by tea.
After work, it is time to address the cracks in my foundation. I head to the beauty salon for a facial where I point out the new line on my face.
‘We can’t stop ageing,’ the therapist tells me.
We can’t!?
I’ve a good mind to ask for my money back. Instead, I make a mental note to avoid Meadowhall toilet facilities and any other harsh overhead lighting for ever.
Thursday 3 April
Wake up naturally. I love it when this happens—rather than the trauma of being jolted from my sleep, it’s a gentler, more natural start to the day. I lie still, listening to the birds outside, and waiting for the alarm—my signal to get up and begin writing. I wait and wait…
Not a sound. Nothing. Realise I’ve not set the alarm. It is now 6.07am and I’ve overshot 5am writers’ club by one hour and seven minutes.
‘Shit!’ I jump out of bed. ‘I’ve not put the alarm on!’ My shouting wakes my husband and possibly the neighbours three doors down.
I make tea and grab my laptop, hoping to make the most of what little time I now have. My precious writing time—gone—and all because we were watching the new Sean Bean programme (aka Scouse Sopranos) last night, and I went to bed distracted by drug crime in Liverpool.
I manage 28 minutes before my sister calls. ‘Are you up?’ she says. ‘I’m at the station on my way to London. I’ve been up since five.’
‘I’m glad one of us has.’
We discuss plans for this evening because, 34 years since we last saw him, we are being reunited with Chesney Hawkes. Then I end the call and close my laptop. The supermarket shop is being delivered, the animals need sorting… daily life is calling and then there’s Chesney.
At six o’clock, it’s a rush to Leeds to make it to the gig on time. We sing and dance and have a fantastic time. It’s like 1991 all over again—except this time, we get to meet Chesney and his brother, Jodie.
Friday 4 April
Write for 40-minutes first thing before my sister calls for a Chesney and Jodie Hawkes debrief. We’re more excited now than back in 1991 when she was nine, and I was 12.
I’m on a high all day, which it turns out is great for productivity. I’m on fire at work, getting through my ‘to do’ list at quite a pace. At lunchtime, a new character and story drop into mind. Not another bloody novel!
I put them to one side and remind myself that I must MUST finish the book I’m working on before beginning something new. My mind never seems to get the memo, which is frustrating, especially as I’m not getting time to write any of them.
‘It’s fine,’ I tell myself. It’s not every day I get to meet my childhood crush. Next week will be better.
If you would like to support my writing, you can do that for less than a pound a week. It shows me you enjoy my work and want me to continue. Thanks so much for being here. Liz xx
What a busy time, Liz. Hoping you get into a groove with the writing.