I have been in a retrospective mood. It was just January that I put aside the toys (I was a toy manufacturer) and became a full-time writer and artist. Since then I have published a novella and a novel. There are another two novels on the go and I have ideas for a couple more.
I’ve drawn more that fifty artworks and am currently thinking about going into sculpture.
It has been a busy year…
Except I feel frustrated.
When I did my masters I specialised in Screen-writing and Children’s literature, but in these genres I have done nothing. It strikes me that maybe I ought to try. Except that I am time poor at the moment. It is so frustrating.
On top of it all I have been ill. I was plagued with flu and colds in the beginning of the year and I have also been sick lately. All it has made me feel is that I’m not reaching my full potential.
I was chatting to a friend the other day and they said I ought to just write when I could. And I realised that I don’t.
It is almost as if my writing has become a job of work. I get up and start work and then I leave work…. Where has all the spontaneity gone? My novel and novella have grown out of ideas scribbled in the dark, and on windy days, but the body of the work was almost regimented.
I’m not sure that it is the best way for me to work…
I revel in the chaos of creativity. I understand that I need a goal everyday but why does it have to be done so orderly? Why can’t I write when I want? Why can’t I disappear into my own world outside of a nine to five day?
So my 41st year is going to be one where I embrace the fact that I am a creative. If I want to write between midnight and three am there ought to be nothing to stop it.
It’s almost as if I am stifling myself and it has to stop… Right now. I need to get more work done and if I do that by being more chaotic, then so be it.
I don’t have a nine to five job so maybe I ought to stop pretending I do…