All Packed Up Unready To Go August 24, 2008
Posted by Jen in : Domestic Doings, Journal, Novel , 25 commentsSo. Who said it wasn’t possible to re-write an entire novel in ten days flat? Here you are then… Rewrite: The Kamikaze Method.
- Ignore grumping that alarm is set for 4.45am every morning for a week; ignore fact that eyes are apparently stapled shut.
- Drink more Extra-Strong Tetleys than is medically recommended on the right side of sanity. In between bouts of brewing, write, write, write, write, write, write, write for approx. 4 hours.
- Fall into shower and brush pegs before lumbering off to work in unironed clothes. Pretend to be lively; try not to stumble about the place like an absentminded donkey. Remember to make packed lunch beforehand as you already had your lunchbreak before you got there. Colleagues can be bribed to buy Picnics and DoubleDeckers and Toffee Crisps. These also counteract healthy lunch and therefore = balanced diet.
- After 8 hours’ solid toil, go home via supermarket for more pizzas. Spotty malnourished kids = sign of a real writer.
- Have nightly argument about why you are so knacked out before going to bed in huff.
But I did it. Four hours’ writing every day before work. Utter madness. And yesterday, I stuffed it all into a Jiffy bag almost as big as those under my eyes and off it went. It’s better than it was two weeks ago. I even cried at some parts. The Novel is therefore either bloody brilliant or the tiredness and hormones got the better of me. And, yes, I’m already thinking of other changes I could have made. The postage should have been far less considering how many holes the plot has. Oh, arses.
Still. After the Post Office, I threw all the clothes I own (spare pair of jeans, clean pants and dodgy unsuitable psychedelic hippy top) into a bag, dyed my grey hairs (and ears and right hand) shouted at the boys every 3.5 seconds before bundling us off to the airport and onto a plane bound for Jersey.
It was an odd feeling, hurtling down the runway as I was physically propelled towards my past. Last night, I scoffed Chinese with my mum before making the poor old bat frolic on the beach in the dark. The tide whooshed in, St Brelade’s Church and the Fisherman’s Chapel glowed peacefully and No. 2 son discovered a talent for Irish Dancing. On the beach. In the dark. It’s nice to be home.
Today, however, there is daylight. Jersey has changed since I left 6 years ago. It’s different. I’m different. And I still haven’t decided what I think about that.
