Going out with my hubby is a rare occasion I look forward to. Take our cinema outing a couple of week-ends ago. We led the military operation of arranging childcare to perfection and jumped into our car, on time. And then the voices started: ‘How credible is the twist in my novel’s plot? You know, the one where the German librarian reveals himself as a charming American? Was he, called Karl, impersonating the German philosopher Karl Emmanuel Kant whilst in reality being Karl Popper’s grandchild? Or even Karl Popper himself? No, how could he, he is too young to be the Karl Popper. Why not just write him up as a regular guy, nobody’s famous grandchild, and nobody even remotely interested in philosophy and sociology. Would that be a safer bet? Why complicate things? Or am I being a chicken, running away from the challenge of making this work?…’
Whilst indulging in my own inner thoughts, I heard a familiar and rather more real voice. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’ my husband asked.
‘Uh? Oh, I guess not, sorry.’
‘Are you ok? You seem distracted.’
And I was. Before I explain, let me remind you that this post is top secret, one of those liberating secrets published on my blog with the understanding that none of my loyal blogging friends will spill the beans. EVER. By following me you have unwittingly agreed to keep this and other revelations to your ethereal selves.
The legal detail over and done with, let me resume my story. I was distracted because work and other commitments have kept me away from my novel. The less I am able to write, the more I am drawn to thinking about it. Each and every droplet of free time is novel rummaging time. When this happens, story line, characters, future trajectory take my free will hostage and for the duration of the mental kidnapping I shut the real world out whilst assuming a contented and slightly idiotic expression. If NaNoWriMo were permissible as a mental undertaking, I’d be a clear winner.
Still in the car, direction cinema, I looked at my husband and did the right thing: I kept all this to myself. Like a reformed smoker, I reluctantly wiped the cloudy and intoxicating thoughts of my novel off my mind. ‘Nothing important, just stuff at work,’ I said. ‘What was that you wanted to tell me, darling?’ a wry smile breaking up the line of my lying face.
Dear amateur writing blogger, this is your chance to reveal your terrible secrets. I won’t tell, I promise. After all, this is the world wide web we are posting on, not a gossipy office corridor!