The Novel

I'm sitting here on a Wednesday evening, tapping the plastic squares. The television is off. Nowt good on, the noise annoyed me. Then, while I tapped the keys, I remembered something about writing.

I wrote a novel. Two of them. By accident. Well, the first one happened because a couple of short stories got longer. The second one happened because the first one looked all alone on my Amazon bookshelf.

Writing 'em is hard graft. I can tell you that. The first one, Off The Cuff, started as a short story. Dead easy. Five hundred words. Then a thousand. The idea lived and breathed. The characters came alive. My mind churned the story faster than my fingers could type it.

By the time I got to the end, or what I thought seemed the end, I knew more could come out. I don't know why. But that's how it was.

I told Mary.

—I reckon I could make this short story thing a novel.

—Yeah, go for it.

—Dunno though. It could be shite.

—Write it, find out?

—Yeah, I suppose.

—I'll read it if you do. I reckon it'll be great.

—Thanks, love.

—Do it, right? Crack on.

She knows what I'm like. A had a proper wobble on thinking about it. But that evening I opened up Scrivener and made a folder called 'Chapter 1'. Added a file. The cursor flashed at me.

I took a breath. Started typing.

Bloody hell. I couldn't leave it alone. Every night. smashing the keys. Writing several thousand words a day. Without a clue what to do apart from getting the words down.

I'd write in the evenings. Past midnight. Get up early doors, make notes. Write more. Work for the day, then get back to it.

Not long into it, tiredness slammed me all day. Didn't matter. I kept going. The story wanted out. So I let it.

This is the bit they don't tell you about. I got RSI in both wrists and hands. The doc gave me exercises to do to relieve the strain. The novel? Yeah, that happened. Slow and steady. Scrivener had a load more folders in it than I started with. I kept up with the exercises.

One evening, I felt the story wobbled a bit. No problem. I knew how to fix it. I slammed those keys for hours. Way past midnight. Fell asleep, didn't I?

I woke up slumped in my chair. My lap desk had fallen sideways onto the chair, taking my Mac with it. No harm done. It didn't land on the floor, lucky enough. I staggered up to bed at something like 03:20. The alarm went off at 05:30.

Me and Mary sat drinking our morning brews.

—Bloody hell, you look rough.

—Not a lot of sleep.

—Did you stay up late again, writing?

—Yeah.

I told her what happened. That earned me the famous Mary eye-roll.

—You muppet! When you get tired, get to bloody bed.

Good advice. But the novel needed writing.

So, it's getting late on this chilly autumn evening. I'll stop writing now. I don't fancy still being here at some mad time in the morning.