Sepia image of old typewriter

When will I ever learn?

I ran out of rope this week. If dogged determination, relentless cheeriness, and blind optimism were plaited into a rope, I abruptly ran out of all three. 

I'm no mountaineer, but the metaphorical plummet from Mount Optimism felt all too real. I sat at my desk on Tuesday night, exhausted from the effort of just trying to design some promotional posts. It was the last straw in a week full of frustration where no matter how hard I tried, too many things were infuriatingly out of my control. 

Have you ever felt like this? I hope not. In that defeated moment, I could think of nothing I wanted to do. Even reading and playing my cello got a big fat, no! I was about to write off the day and go to bed at an embarrassing early, even for me, seven pm, when I saw the Scrivener app was still open in my dock. 

I finished the first draft of my fourth book in record time back in August and decided to give it a few weeks break before the edit. The thing is, like a tree root in a cracked paving stone, life finds a way of filling a gap and, amidst the stress, there has been precious little writing.

With one click, my draft burst onto the screen and threw a warm blanket around my shoulders. It was like coming home. As I read my first chapter, making notes as I went about edits, I felt the tension leave me and at my feet, three strands of rope began plaiting themselves together. 

Note to self: Em, you're a misery guts when you're not writing, so just bloody write! 

 

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