I’ve always had a rather, probably rose tinted, view of a writer’s life. I imagined cosy relaxed days of being able to settle down each morning in a quiet place to spend a few hours in the uninterrupted bliss of writing. That image however bore no resemblance to the frenetic life I was leading in order to get this book written. Work was manic and the organisation of our home life frankly erratic. Early mornings were accompanied by late nights (or even earlier mornings!), cramming in a few hours sleep that were often littered with repeating sections of storyline.
I do have a habit of setting myself deadlines, I’m not sure why but I set them in everything that I do, sometimes not even consciously. The realisation gradually comes upon me as to what the deadline is as I put myself under this self-imposed pressure. In this instance it was that my daughter was coming home for the weekend from university where she was reading English Literature and Philosophy. It was three months after I’d started writing and I needed someone to have a first look to see if I should just press the delete button now or persevere. She was going to be my first reader for my first novel – not at all daunting!
I’m sure it was the last thing she needed but I trusted her to tell me the truth and she is honest enough to give it to me (although she told me afterwards she was dreading it in case she had to!) I cannot tell you how nervous I was as I handed over my precious, though still very raw, manuscript, then how sick I felt all weekend as she read and we both studiously avoided talking about it until I was delivering her back to the train. On that journey we discussed it at length, she gave me valuable feedback, and most importantly, and to my considerable relief, she loved the characters and story. That was all I wanted!
Elated, I returned home to start the first reworking. Georgia Currently reading ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ by Robert Galbraith