Years ago – no, decades ago – a friend, learning that I was a writer, looked at me, amazed, and said, “But I thought writers lived in big white houses on hilltops, dressed all in white, and lay on a white sofa, drinking white wine… And now and then they’d go to a white typewriter on a glass table, and tap out a few words.” I laughed so hard I dropped me chips.
 |
| Ghost Dance by Susan Price |
This week a friend asked for a favour, and I explained that I'd find it hard to help because I was so busy: publishing on kindle, blogging, doing admin and trying to finish my third Sterkarm book before University starts again in September. “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t realise you were busy. I thought you were probably lying in the sun, with Davy passing you chocolates, and keeping your glass filled with red.” Something like 30 years separates these remarks, yet the idea remains – writers live a life of ease, loafing about, never besmirching their white robes – except with red wine and chocolate.
Where does this idea come from?
Both my friends, when asked to write essays or reports, considered they were working hard - doing research, making arguments, revising. Yet, obviously, they don't think I've done anything like that to write the 60 books I've published. My writing isn't work.
Possibly my books are written by Elves. Or Blot.
Whereas, in fact, a recent day of mine went like this:- Got up about 8-00, went straight into room next to bedroom, switched on computer and spent next two hours tediously scanning pages of my OOP book, Ghost Dance, converting it to editable text and correcting. Ate breakfast at computer.
Went downstairs about ten, switched on laptop, made coffee.
Put in load of laundry.
Spent next two hours updating my website with details of my newly published kindle book, Ghost Song. Also checked emails, did admin for the Kindle Authors UK Blog (and checked to see whether Speilberg had been in touch.) Attended to laundry.
Took exercise books and a pen to a quiet pub, where I wrote for three and half hours. 2,500 words that I almost certainly wouldn’t have got written at home. Lots of concentrating, thinking, crossing out, rewriting, making notes to self.
Home about 5pm, attended to laundry, did washing up, switched on laptop and carried on working – websites, emails, admin, editing - until after 9pm.
This is pretty typical - a 13 hour day - though the mix of writing, emails, admin and so forth varies.
I’m lucky, I know. I don’t have to wait for buses in the rain or snow, or walk through riots. I can go and work in a pub if I like.
I don't think I work harder than anybody else. I don't think the work I do is more valuable than that of others - in fact, I know that neither is the case.
But, y'know - I do work. I'd just like people to recognise that. I work hard, I work long - and I don't even own a white sofa.
And, after that long gripe - here's Blot.
