Ask my sister. Go on, ask her. She’ll tell you that a writer spends his days sitting in front of the telly eating crisps and bacon butties, getting drunk and, occasionally, wearing pants… She might be onto something. But I’m not telling her.
So, what does a writer do all day? Well, I recently found myself stood in a field watching a mate fly his model aeroplane for well over an hour. Then we had a nice trip to one of those out of town shopping centres for lunch. When I got home, I had a bit of a nap.
Should I have been writing? Absolutely. There was an article to complete, the pay would have been better and I wouldn’t have got a sunburnt nose. But there was always the next day. Except, I spent that at an RAF museum eyeing up the spitfires, making machine gun noises and referring to my good friend Mr Harper as Ginger.
I was back home and sat in-front of the computer by 15:00. Of course I needed to check my emails and twitter before I actually started any writing. And I had to check the Guardian website and HuffPost to catch up on the latest news.
I finally started the writing after 21:00 and I worked until 03:00. I babbled at the page all night and produced some odd stuff that resembled an article, kind of. And I went to bed tired, but planning to get up early to finish it off.
The next day, I was up at 11:00 and the whole cycle started again.
Being a writer, for me, means I feel like I’m always running late. Always behind schedule. But the job always gets finished on time. And when I look at the results, published in that magazine, I’m actually pleased with it.
And then I realise, it’s OK to run my life to this odd rota of running around, daydreaming and playing. Because when the piece is due with the client, it will be there and it will be well written and I’ll get another cheque and a pat on the back.
And that’s what a writer does.
You live life in a blind panic that you’re doing it all wrong and that one day you’ll get caught out. Then you’ll get dragged off to writers prison where you’ll be locked up for not doing the job like everyone else.
Well guess what. You’re doing it just like everyone else and don’t let anyone tell you different. Getting the job done and done well is all that matters. How you get it done is down to you.
Of course my sister won’t believe a word of this. She’ll go on thinking I spend my day on the couch, occasionally wearing pants and eating bacon butties.
It’s great being a writer.
