Who was in the foyer?

Oh, here's a new one.

As I still haven't really sorted out a structure for this novel, my writing has jumped around a bit. I've allowed myself to pick and choose which scenes I write, and they're by no means in the right order at the moment. I'm quite certain that some will end up being discarded (ouch - really?) and there'll definitely be an awful lot of joining up and jiggling around to do at a later date.

I'm starting to think that the later date had better not be too much later, actually. The reason being that I revisited a scene I wrote quite a while ago and realised that since I wrote it, one of the character names has changed even as she sat in her armchair, doing nothing. A key part of my heroine's backstory had altered beyond recognition, and I don't even remember changing my mind about it.

Another part has my main character arriving to visit her grandmother in a residential home just as lunch was being cleared away in the dining room. Later on, it's half past eight in the morning. That'll be breakfast, then. A time warp.

Not good.

And then there's the scene where a character sits in his conservatory and watches the sun set over the hills. Then, later in the story, he's unable to sleep and watching the sun rise from the same chair... eep.

Name changes are easily sorted, and continuity problems  in terms of 'It was eight years since...' vs 'It was fourteen years since...' can be put right without any problems, but I need to watch out for more serious flaws that affect other decisions that the characters make, or how they speak, or act.

For the sunrise/sunset problem I had to draw a diagram to work out which way the building had better face. I want him to watch the sunrise, I think (or maybe the sunset) so, if that's the case, can the lady who lives across the road see the sun from her kitchen, or her bedroom?

Was it Agnes in the foyer on that occasion, or Maisie?

It matters.

So, another little dimension to keep an eye on. This is multifaceted to the nth degree; so much more complex than a blog post or a short story!

Can I juggle all the strands that I need to juggle? How many balls in the air can I manage before something comes crashing down?

We shall see.

I am writing a book. Yes, me.

I'm going to write a book.

I think it's taken me several years to work up the courage to say that, and I haven't actually worked up the courage properly just yet because this blog is unlikely to be read by anyone, as I have no intention of promoting it anywhere. This is called 'security by obscurity', apparently.

Even if it's a whisper in the dark, however, I'm saying it. I'm going to write a book. Me. Yep.

I have no idea why it's so difficult to say that I'm a writer. It somehow seems arrogant to me to make such a claim, and risks someone reading the stuff I write and rejecting it as not good enough. What I write comes from the deepest and most vulnerable part of me and for someone to laugh and say, 'You think you're a writer? What makes you think you can write a book?' makes me cringe with self consciousness.

Of course, saying 'I am a writer' also begs the response, 'Have you had anything published?' And then, of course, apart from my own little orange Blogger 'Publish' button, no, nothing published. I have yet to be validated by someone who holds the keys to a publishing contract.

This works differently if you're an artist, it seems to me. If you paint, you're an artist. Just because you don't have work in a gallery doesn't mean you're not. Likewise, a musician is a musician even without a recording contract, but somehow people apply the rules differently if you write.

So I'm breaking the rules (an uncomfortable thing for me, a very law-abiding soul) and not only am I claiming that I am a writer, I am stating that I am writing a book. And books are big.

I'm aiming for 80,000 - 100,000 words, and I want them to be well-chosen, and fit together to make something good. I had an idea for a novel several years ago and events in the last few months have inspired me to find the idea, dust it off and look at it again. The idea grew and grew and linked up with some other ideas and I started to write them down.

I've got all I need. I have a faithful little laptop, a plethora of notebooks and a couple of good pens, if the children don't disappear with them. My 'E' key is a little worn, and I suspect it might disappear completely if I get this whole thing written, but that's ok. Only Real Writers have worn vowels.                          

I'm writing a book. I am so excited and I'm finding it hard to think about anything else. I feel alive and expectant and full of anticipation and hope. I know that it won't be plain sailing and there'll be times when I feel like giving up, but for now, I feel positive.

I'm going to do this.

Who knows what might happen?