Thick Head
Yesterday evening was going to be a marathon write-fest. Barbara had to go to Narberth for a farmer talk, so me and the beasts could just settle down in the study at half five when she left and not come out again until half twelve when she got back. I had high hopes of polishing off five of the ten remaining segments of Benfro book two rewrite number I've forgotten how many.
Well, I was going to.
As it turned out, Barbara came home with the beginnings of a migraine. She couldn't cancel the talk, but there was no way she was driving two hours there, two hours back. There was money in the project budget to pay me to do it. Would I please? Pretty Please? Spend four hours in a crap old Ford Escort Estate, driving down to Pembrokeshire (spiritual home of Sir Benfro) and back?
Who am I to resist those batting eyelids, those big brown eyes? (well, more slate grey/green, but you get my point).
In the end it wasn't a complete washout. Whilst she who knows about these things* talked to farmers about worms and scab and all the nasty things that happen to sheep, I sat in a quiet corner of a quieter-still hotel and tappity-tapped away at my laptop. Not five sections, but two - about three thousand words in a little under three hours.
Now it occurred to me as we drove north, back to the wilds of Ceredigion, in the dark of night, that despite being in strange surroundings, I had managed to produce more than I've managed in a long while sat here at my familiar desk. Perhaps it was because there was nothing I could do but concentrate on the writing - no dishes to wash, no dogs to walk, no cat to hide from. Or maybe I'd just psyched myself up enough beforehand to get on with it and hammer out those words. It could be that I'm bored of this tiny little room with it's baby-poo walls and cold, northerly aspect. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I now find myself back home and struggling to get into the groove. This could be because I'm back home or it could be because I seem to have caught whatever it was that gave Barbara a thick head yesterday. Maybe spending four hours in a car with someone who's not well wasn't such a good idea after all.
* - with apologies to Mr Stuart for stealing his running gag.
Well, I was going to.
As it turned out, Barbara came home with the beginnings of a migraine. She couldn't cancel the talk, but there was no way she was driving two hours there, two hours back. There was money in the project budget to pay me to do it. Would I please? Pretty Please? Spend four hours in a crap old Ford Escort Estate, driving down to Pembrokeshire (spiritual home of Sir Benfro) and back?
Who am I to resist those batting eyelids, those big brown eyes? (well, more slate grey/green, but you get my point).
In the end it wasn't a complete washout. Whilst she who knows about these things* talked to farmers about worms and scab and all the nasty things that happen to sheep, I sat in a quiet corner of a quieter-still hotel and tappity-tapped away at my laptop. Not five sections, but two - about three thousand words in a little under three hours.
Now it occurred to me as we drove north, back to the wilds of Ceredigion, in the dark of night, that despite being in strange surroundings, I had managed to produce more than I've managed in a long while sat here at my familiar desk. Perhaps it was because there was nothing I could do but concentrate on the writing - no dishes to wash, no dogs to walk, no cat to hide from. Or maybe I'd just psyched myself up enough beforehand to get on with it and hammer out those words. It could be that I'm bored of this tiny little room with it's baby-poo walls and cold, northerly aspect. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I now find myself back home and struggling to get into the groove. This could be because I'm back home or it could be because I seem to have caught whatever it was that gave Barbara a thick head yesterday. Maybe spending four hours in a car with someone who's not well wasn't such a good idea after all.
* - with apologies to Mr Stuart for stealing his running gag.
Comments
Sometimes noise, people and activity not directed towards you is very conducive towardws writing - thus, I think, the oft-repeated image of the writing in the local cafe/bistro/Starbucks.
The problem here, in the middle of nowhere Wales, is that it's too quiet. Also my nearest Starbucks is approximately two hours drive away (which is a good thing, really).
I just need to find the old discipline I left lying around here somewhere...