Another week over with no fiction written

At last, it’s Friday (thank Crunchie), and Friday evening is upon me, that brief pause for breath between the working week, and the weekend of supermarkets, family visits and housework. OK, so this week I only worked three days because Monday was a bank holiday, and since I work in the public sector they make up for the relatively low pay by throwing the Tuesdays in for free, and there’s not much housework to do because OneMonkey took the whole week off and has done most of it already. But still.

Here I am with my mildly alcohol-laced coffee, contemplating the week’s writing. On the plus side, I had a sci-fi flash accepted, as I mentioned earlier, but on the minus side, I haven’t actually written anything new. I spent my lunch hour today writing a series of confused thoughts to turn into something later (or I will if I don’t get side-tracked, so that’s a big ‘if’), and I’ve obviously been writing this witty and enlightening blog, but no actual wordcount of fiction. Neither have I sent out the latest instalment of the serial novel to my devoted readership of one (yes I know I said ‘souls’ before, but only one person actually gets chapters sent out regularly as opposed to reading a chapter more or less as soon as I finish it); it was already about a week overdue, and since technically it’s a chapter per fortnight, that’s quite a failing.

I feel like I should draw up a timetable and force myself to work on particular stories at set times of the week, even if what I write is a load of rubbish (more so than usual, even) but somehow that seems to take all the fun out of it. Where’s the spontaneity, the unpredictable thrill of waiting for the muse to visit, if every Tuesday between seven and eight I sit down for an hour of sword and sorcery?

Genetic predisposition doesn’t help: I’m torn between the erratic efforts of my mother’s aspirations to Mills & Boon authordom, with their wilful disregard to reality and years between attempts, and the sensible planning and steady perseverance of my dad, many-times published, but we’re talking scientific journals and academic textbooks not cult novels.

Friday evening sputters out, I still haven’t written anything fresh, and I know it’s no use planning tonight what to work on in the morning because I won’t follow my own advice.

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