When I close my eyes and am drifting off to sleep I sometimes see words appear, I think it’s my as yet unwritten novel. As I am on my way to dreamland it’s hard to decipher but I can clearly see pages and read words and more importantly understand the plot. As soon as I am awake it’s gone. Perhaps if I could photocopy my thoughts my novel would be written by now rather than a few pages of 500 words here and there. I’m sure if I joined a class or read a how-to book I would know that writing a novel isn’t as easy as sitting down and writing whatever mush is in your brain but I am going for the organic approach and hoping for the best. In all honesty I am hoping that my magic going-to-sleep novel is a talent that others don’t have and by harnessing this super power I will eventually write my best seller from a partially comatose state. We’ll see. I have been seeing my novel for at least 15 years and I haven’t made it into Waterstones yet.
As time ticks on it’s becoming a pressing issue and by the time I hit my 39th birthday I had an overwhelming sense of despair. If you knew me you would know that this isn’t unusual and as my Mother often reminds me, I am a cup half empty kind of person. However on my birthday morning I awoke to my kids shouting/crying/fighting (or maybe they were singing and laughing but as I say I have a more negative take on life than some), and I realised that I need to achieve something more in my life as time is running out and the one thing I have always wanted to do and never got round to doing is write. Unfortunately most of my brain waves and creative thinking takes place at inopportune moments, whilst driving or sitting in the pitch black willing my children to go to sleep and by the time I can write them down they are forgotten. Another excuse I know, so I took the bull by the horns and set about writing the elusive Novel. I started by reading back over my numerous childhood diaries and bar none, I am ashamed. Was I really so shallow? The answer is undoubtedly yes but I am pretty confident that I have turned a page, teehee, since then.
So step two was to let my imagination lead me. Fortuitously for my research, but not for my bank balance I had time on my hands to reflect as I had recently been made redundant and had become a stay at home mum, which frankly meant lots (x1000) more work than a regular job but plenty of time without sensible conversation and so time to ponder. I should also point out that I live away from my homeland and so am without many of the trappings and spoils of familiarity. A perfect time to at least start the scratchings of my masterpiece. But no, disaster, instead of writing my magnum opus I slunk into a sorry state of sadness. With time on my hands while my babies had their morning and afternoon naps I looked through old photos, read old diaries, sorted through the unopened boxes I shipped from the UK eight years ago, searching for inspiration, and it just made me more introspective and sorrowful for the life experiences gone by. So now I have a pen and paper by my bed and am hoping that my mysterious sleep novel will magically write itself, preferably before I’m 40.