Month: March 2019

The feeling of being so close to the end product after the hard work of getting a story to a point where it can be read is something not many people understand or can imagine. It is with great excitement that I am at this point. Even more excited that I’m taking this breathtaking step of looking into self-publishing. When publishing there is always the question of how to do it. Sometimes you need the traditional publishing route and other times the creative adventure of putting together something others can immerse themselves in, simply fills you with a nerve-racking, chest tightening feeling of awesome and fear. The next question you ask yourself … do I let this chest tightening fear stop me? If a Writer can take another step forward and realise that dreams that scare you into paralysis, are dreams worth chasing and working toward, there is a chance of succeeding.

This kind of fear sits with anyone and everyone. Yes, definitely something that makes everyone who is at this point of stepping up onto the big stage of writing life feels or rather chokes on. Its that moving forward into another world. The realisation that being “out there” is so very close, and is compounded by the natural human sensation of not wanting to be a failure. Being an Author is the next step in the evolution of the writing world. It is up to the Writer to push through the breathtaking, chest squeezing fear and step onto to that stage of life to become an Author. It all starts with the decision on how one wishes to publish. When that decision is made the march forward needs to be relentless, determined and continuous.

A deep breath, the long exhale, the reminders that Writers will remain Writers unless their work is put in print … these run on a loop inside the mind. It is with courage, determination and perseverance that the Writer steps onto the stage and into the professional world, sending their work to others to read, criticise and hopefully put in print.

The chapter is finally finished!!

It has been hours of crouching over the laptop keyboard, ducking the flying fur of playing cats and reaching out and eating or drinking without thinking of what it actually is. The focus of living in another world comes with startling disorientation as my surroundings sink in and I look around.

The first of my senses returning is my sight. The startling sensation of mess has me keeping very still, in case an unknown rodent pokes its head out of the pile of plates, cups and other take out containers I don’t remember being there. I move my eyes side to side.

What happened to my neat, organised writing space?

When did it happen?

Blinking my eyes quickly I realise I’m still wearing my contact lenses. The gritty, dry feeling indicates I haven’t taken them out for a number of hours, which means I probably haven’t washed my face either. Apart from the food and beverage mess on the surface and cascading to the floor and under the desk, balled up paper is added to the mess along with something that looks like stationery and… where did the paperweight come from? If it is indeed a paperweight.

Sitting back in my chair it is in that moment when my sense of smell kicks in and I’m smelling a cacophony of assaulting smells. My natural breathing becomes one of frantic sniffing as I try to find out the different whiff’s and odours are. I discover the whiffs of stale food containers, the weird whiffs of the remains of the beverages I don’t remember getting or drinking, then…. there it is.

That odour.

The one odour that seems to be close but I cannot figure out what it is. Suddenly it dawns on me. Looking up at my calendar I look for the last pink X marked in a left-hand corner. Three days ago. Just before I started with my latest writing session. I need to shower. Quickly moving into the bathroom I do what I need to, returning my world to a form of normality that can be related to. At my writing spot, which miraculously hasn’t been needed by anyone in the last three days, I stack everything that needs to go to the kitchen and put my space back in order. While walking to the kitchen to dispose of what has currently been part of my life I hear … nothing. Silence meets my ears. Deafening silence. A streak of dawn meets my tired eyes as I walk past a window. What time is it?

In the kitchen, I move through the shadows putting everything where it needs to be and quickly take in the time. Three o’clock in the morning. That makes sense on so many levels. I yawn widely. My eyes catch up with everything as they try to close. The writing high is melting away and the bone-wracking exhaustion seeps through my body. Slowly I make my way to the bedroom where I slowly sink to the pillows.

“You finished your chapter,” my beloved other half mutters, “what time is it?”

“Yep, its three in the morning,” I mutter back, “how long have I been writing?”

“About forty-eight hours,” he mutters while gathering me against his side, “you were in the zone so tightly you didn’t hear very much, I hope you don’t mind all the take out.”

“You fed me, babe,” I sigh as I nestle on his shoulder and feel his warmth seep into my body, “thank you.”

“Sleep beautiful,” he sighs contently, “you’ve been working hard.”

My eyes close against the sudden heavy tiredness. A small smile tugs at my lips as I realise that without the support and encouragement of this precious man, who holds me as I sleep, my passion for the written word would not be as far as it is … right now … at this moment in time.