I would love to say that in the time since I last posted a blog, or the time since I wrote about losing the novel even, I have been a perfect version of myself and I have spent the time needed to re-write the novel. I have sat there and stared at the screen and mechanically typed - whilst this is not a verbatim copy of what was previously there, it is enough. It is better. The crap has been sheered away and it is better. I would love to say that, but it's just not true...
This festive season I have spent quite a bit of time knitting. I have been knitting as opposed to typing, which is productive - I have produced quite a lot of blanket patches - but no pieces of a novel. There is a reason, but I'm not sure that I am even being honest with myself about it.
Part of me wants to tell myself that I needed to give myself some time off and some time to heal. I would love to believe that one, but I also know that it is more likely to be I'm scared to try and write it again. Part of me is scared that I will write it again, not back it up and I will lose all of my words again, but part of me is scared because even though I have plot points, even though I can walk my way through the plot points and I will have a lot of it back, it's always a fear that I will struggle to write it. It's scary to stare at the blank screen and not be sure as to whether or not I can fill it with words again.
The festive season is over now, so I want to move forward with getting back to writing, though I'm not certain I will start off with that novel. Here we go.
Bring it on 2018.
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