I can’t imagine any woman writer not feeling that, sometimes, life gets in the way of writing. I have all the best intentions – I will get up early, get the laundry out of the way, shut the door on everyone and just write. I take my writing folder to work with me, or to conferences, thinking that I will find even half an hour here and there to scribble. I think about writing as I’m driving to work, as I’m driving home. I think about it in meetings, or whilst my students are doing group work. I think about it when I’m sitting in the pub with my friends, halfway down my third drink and hearing the voice in my head, just at the moment when I cannot listen to it. The tv is on – discussing some celebrity memoir, and I think about my memoir, and how much work I haven’t done on it.
So it seems that I spend a significant part of my time thinking about the writing I am not doing, despite my good intentions. Does this make me a writer? If I’m not actually doing much in the way of writing?
Meanwhile, I am in the limbo of waiting to hear from my editor about the final edits for the upcoming book. Publication seems to be its own fiction, as there is no progress on the projected production schedule as yet. Will it ever happen?
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