Beach Days

Another weekend at our beach house. Spring was definitely in the air, even though, technically, it's still winter. Our little boy, affectionately known as 'Rat Boy' or, even more affectionately, 'The Ferret', had a wonderful time jumping in rock pools and drawing in the sand with his feet. Can't wait to take him swimming when it gets warmer.

Went to lunch with Anna Campbell, who lent me Anne Lamott's 'Bird by Bird', chatted about a great new plot twist in her next book. Then she generously listened to me moan about my latest work in progress.

I'm always moaning about whatever I'm writing at the moment. My writer friends are very patient with me and apart from dubbing me Eeyore (thanks, Denise!) they never tell me to just shut up and write the damn book. They must bite their tongues an awful lot, but they never say it. Honestly, there are days when writing the first draft is like wading through cement. And having read 'Bird by Bird', I realise I'm not the only writer who feels this way.

So if writing causes us so much pain, why do we do it? Someone whose name escapes me said they don't like writing but they love having written. I think that just about sums it up for me. Getting the words on the page is such a chore some days, I begin to wonder why I ever thought this writing caper would be such a lark in the first place. But then, occasionally, I re-read what I've written and there's something great there. A spark in a piece of dialogue, a compelling facet of character just crying out to be developed, or one of those strange, wonderful moments where you see a connection your subconscious has set up that solves a knotty plot problem. That's when I love to write.