My Sunday was planned. I was going to ride to Alexandra Palace, explore its market, resist the temptation of fruits and vegetables, wander in the park, and possibly trod along the Parkland Walk. I didn’t. Instead I remained home.
Back in November, when writers from all over the world make their keyboard bleed word after word to utter miserable sentences that would eventually form the first ugly draft of a novel, I started to write a story. I didn’t quite join the crowds as I didn’t want to write 1,666 words per day but I simply wanted to write a bit everyday. I succeeded for a while before giving up. Writing everyday ended up being harder than I thought it would be, and it was easier to give up and be carried away from the story by the flow of life. December soon arrived and all trace of guilt disappeared as Christmas preparations took over my life and I had no time to think about my story.
January arrived accompanied by a floury of new year resolutions being posted all over the Internet. I never much cared for new year resolutions but I always think about making some. This process makes me think about what is actually important to me and where I want to go with my life.
I reconsidered my writing and the habits I had formed around it. I can hardly call myself a writer. I am still a young learner and I had been an erratic one too. I’ve been writing 500 words every week for the past two years but that was nothing, a mere excuse to tell myself I was practising. I wanted to make more progress than I was, commit to one single project for once. So I decided I would write everyday. And I did – still do.
I wasn’t writing anything important, only small scenes based on the Arthurian legends or playing with two of my original characters. I felt I was making more progress than I ever did before. There was intent beyond my writing and an actual attempt to better myself. A month passed by and my story came back at the foreground of my imagination. It was calling me but the task of digging back its current 10,000 words and sorting it out (I had not written in a chronological order) felt daunting. I kept pushing it at the back of my mind.
I could have enjoyed the strain in my legs while riding up to Alexandra Palace, the crispness of the cold in my breath, and the warmth of the sun on my face but I didn’t. It was suddenly time to stop avoiding my story.
So Sunday I stopped ignoring the nagging voice at the back of my head and I am now back at writing my story. It was difficult to start again. The words were refusing to come and I kept deleting them until five minutes into this process I found the right ones and sentences started to flow. Almost a week later, I am still writing my story and it hasn’t become easier but I am enjoying this other kind of adventure very much.