I get up around five or six and drag myself to the coffee maker, and then to the laptop. I stare out the window, at my fellow Victorians on their way to work. Should I get right to it, or read a little more Saul Bellow?
Despite this self-imposed retreat occurring in the heart of Victoria’s hotel district it’s remarkably quiet around here—gotta love those courteous Canadians—and conducive to novel writing. Great view, solitude, and the sounds of sparse traffic that make a decent substitute for crashing waves. About the only things missing are the granola and organic coffee sit downs with fellow retreaters—you know, where we lie about how much we’ve written before breakfast.
But I’m accomplishing much here. A story is developing, and yesterday one of my characters did something quite unexpected, but so right for her, and it revealed her true personality to me, and hopefully, to future readers.
So this is what it’s like to be a real writer. To rise and not have to worry about taking out garbage, or did the sprinklers come on last night, or wonder how long I can answer emails and still make it to work on time. To live in a world in its own time zone and with its own rules, and transport myself even further away, to a place where the story takes over, and all I have to do is figure out what it means.
One week in. Twenty thousand words done. I might just make it.
More next week. Wishing you all good writing.