Yes, I’ve gone to the gym today. It was hell on Earth, and not so metaphorically. It was soooo hot. And in Northern Ireland, because it’s rarely this hot, they have amateur air conditioning. If you go into any sort of establishment in summer in Spain, it feels (blissfully) like walking into a fridge. Here? More like walking into a hairdryer. I mean, I was already sweating from getting changed, let alone doing Step. Like Prometheus, I had some foresight, and I didn’t raise my step at all, keeping it at the bare minimum. All in all, I think it was the good choice, I’d have had to stop much more if I hadn’t. It was really too hot.
I also had a headache most of the day, so I really didn’t do much writing. Less than five hundred words, that’s all I managed. I had made dinner earlier this morning, though, so at least I didn’t have that weighing on me all day, but that headache, plus the fact that I found it very hard to get up this morning, made it a very dull, tiresome day, because I myself felt dull and tired. I’m tired right now…
I talked a few days ago about gaining confidence in my writing and I feel this is an area where I could help other writers. I can’t say, like Isabelle Bloom did a few days ago, that if my dream came true, so can yours, because mine hasn’t come true yet, but I have recently acquired a certain determination that I didn’t have before.
One thing I’ve learnt from therapy is that you can get as much advice as you want, but applying it is another matter and that you will only successfully take those actions when it clicks for you. And when will it do that? Through that determination. If you are plagued by self-doubt, you might find that powering through a process of writing everyday to a word count target feels like a waste of time because it’ll never amount to anything.
One of the reasons one might feel like that is that writing a novel is a gargantuan task, let alone building a career out of it. I always think about the water supply. One good day, somebody decided they were going to bring water to every home in the UK (or any other country) and they knew it would take years, they knew problems would arise, and they knew, most of all, that it was a massive job, yet, they didn’t say ‘nah, too much work, let’s just leave it, after all, it’s not so bad what we do now…’ If somebody could look at the job of digging along a whole country to put in pipes and bring water to each individual house, I think writing a novel is a doable task.
And now, I am going to leave you to go and eat some ice-cream.