November 6th 2016
Today I wasted an entire Sunday consuming football in varying forms. I watched live football, I watched the highlights of football, I watched football punditry and I played the Football Manager video game for far too long. I was also supposed to be playing football this morning, but it was cancelled.
The ways in which I spend my free time tend to be quite phasal. (I don’t think that’s a word) As in, I’ll concentrate solely on one pass time or medium of entertainment for an unspecified duration of time, and then I’ll move on to the next one. Right now my phase is “wasting my precious free time by playing Football Manager” interspersed with an occasional film or TV programme.
I haven’t picked up a book in months.
About an hour ago, I was in bed, and Alice was asleep next to me, and the film we were watching (I was watching) finished, and I started to load up Football Manager again. But, something from the film resonated with me, and stirred me into creativity. So, I went downstairs and started to write.
Considering that I am, by self-classification if not by definition, a writer, I don’t actually write much. In fact, what I did tonight wasn’t writing, it was planning. It was jotting down a load of ideas that I’ve had for the repurposing of a novel that I’ve written into a screenplay that I might one day write.
I write all day, and all week at work, I write these blogs before I go to bed, so usually in the evenings it’s nice to have a break from it. But the unproductivity is driving me mad. I hope that moving into our own place would give me more time to write, but if anything I’ve written less since we’ve lived here than I did before.
I’m hoping that will change, once I transition myself from a football phase into a writing phase.
This next part is… apt.
On Tuesday nights in November the Waterstone’s book store down the road from me is hosting a writers night, where novel writers are encouraged to go down and work on their drafts. I’d love to go, but… I play football on Tuesday nights. November is National Novel Writing Month, you see. A month where aspiring (and published) writers are encouraged to try and complete a 50,000 word novel in a month. A feat that I accomplished the one and only time I participated in the international event.
That makes it…. three years since I wrote the novel that I am still currently working on improving. After dozens of revisions I’m still finding incorrectly tensed verb phrases.
I have sent the novel out to literary agents in the hope of gaining representation, but so far I’ve been unsuccessful. I’ve lost track of the ratio between “Number of query letters sent to number of rejection letters received”, but I’m not giving up hope until it’s 30:30.
That month three years ago was the last time I wrote with any conviction or commitment, I’ve struggled with both time and desire since then, and the annoying thing is that I’m now a better writer than I was three years ago. I just don’t have any time. Or desire. Or commitment, or conviction, or energy, or…
Until tomorrow, I feel like I’ve written this post before.