Man, I did not want to write today. Don’t know what it was. Could be the weather which somehow managed to be chilly and muggy at the same time. Maybe it’s a full moon. Maybe I haven’t been sleeping well. Whatever it was, when I sat down and opened the blank page for that next scene, writing was far down my fun-things-to-do-now list.
But I shook it off, grabbed a drink, and decided to stop being uninspired and be awesome instead. Gritted my teeth and ploughed my way through another thousand words. Mind over matter. Or something.
Because there’s one fundamental truth I’ve realised in all my almost-one years of experience. That writing a novel is one thing, and writing a good novel is another thing. The latter takes talent, craft, dedication to improving your skills, a great idea, vibrant characters – all that stuff. But you can’t do it until you can do the former.
Which just takes sheer bloody-mindedness.
And sometimes scotch.