Everyone knows that writers don’t take holidays. Their brains just aren’t wired that way. They’re always switched on, receptive to ideas and chewing them into the building blocks of stories. The problem for many writers, in fact, is having enough time in their lives to get those stories written down, in words, on screens, and then polished as complete things.
I’m talking about the ones – the majority, in fact – who have day jobs and families, and other responsibilities in their lives that diminish their writing time to late nights and cafe lunches. For us, a writer’s holiday is the rare opportunity to take a block of time in which solely to write.
As of today I’ve got a week off work. I have between now and Thursday (Friday I go to Fantasycon) – almost a week in which to do nothing but break the back of a particular piece of rewrite work (actually, also not counting Monday, because I now need to be in the office, but bear with me, it’s the principle of the thing, yeah?). One week, one project. No interruptions or distractions.
It should be bliss, but instead of diving in with writerly abandon I’ve got this distantly ticking clock in the back of my mind. It’s like someone standing over your shoulder whispering “don’t waste this, don’t waste this!”
Talk about putting yourself under pressure. It’s certainly no holiday.
Whinge over (for now).