Life gets in the way

There was absolutely no question about it. Life had a way of getting - in the way - no matter how Lisa tried to bypass the daily necessities and knuckle down to writing the novel.

Not just the novel though - the Magnum Opus as a good friend had described it. The blockbuster that would break all records. That would push all the boundaries. That would enable the family to retire in comfort and luxury - or at least upgrade to a deluxe caravan next summer.

In some ways of course life was helping. Standing in the shower, peeling vegetables, logged into Facebook or Twitter, the ideas flooded in and the plot thickened.

Out with friends, curled on the sofa with a good bottle of wine, chatting over cappucino, characters and storylines surfaced with a vengeance. This was the book about the caring grandmother whose commitment to her voluntary work won her an MBE before she ventured overseas and tragically lost her life whilst rescuing a drowning child from a polar bear as she demonstrated against global warming.

This was the unheard voice of the woman trapped in a loveless marriage whilst secretly seeing the school caretaker - no longer called that of course - and conducting a passionate out of hours affair in the first aid room.

One thing it was unlikely to be was anything of the genre to which recent women's best sellers seemed to belong. Erotic fiction was something she had read to find out what all the fuss was about, only to end up wondering by her reaction if she was in fact frigid. Was she alone in being more interested in what the characters were doing out of bed or the red room of pain? Were there others out there who found the idea of a private jet or helicopter flight more exciting than listening to classical music while blindfolded?

She'd heard it said many times that you have to write about what you know but struggled with this concept. If that was the case what was research all about? Did Jodi Picoult grow up with an innate knowledge of the Inuit, the Amish, of witchraft? Not only that - if she did actually write about what she knew wasn't there a danger that someone might pick up on something and start to put two and two together and make twenty two?

For example - she knew a lot of bakers and cakers. When she said "a lot" she meant dozens if not hundreds. Through networks of food blogs and books, bakeries and suppliers, online and in the "real" world. It would be a piece of cake, easy as pie even, to base a book in the world of calorific delights but what if someone misbehaved behind the bun tins or took advantage of the larder? Wasn't there the possibility that readers might read too much into the subject matter and start to ask questions as to who and where the guilty party might reside?

All these thoughts and a thousand more filled her mind and indeed fingers as she struggled with the second chapter. She knew that by now at least one of the main characters should have been introduced. That something ought to have happened. That the beginning of the semblance of a plot line should be emerging. At the very least that anyone picking up the book and taking a look ought to have some idea as to what it was going to be about.

With none of these objectives achieved she finished the very small glass of red she had allowed herself - it was a school night after all - and headed off to get an early night.

Procrastination - now there was a possible title...

In the beginning

Procrastination. The enemy of all things productive and purposeful. Lurking everywhere these days - on Facebook, in the Twittersphere, even hovering in the inbox where it is possible to convince yourself it's work...

It has also been seen on websites, including blogger itself, where it refuses to allow you to get on with what needs to be done, instead seducing you into filling virtual baskets and wish lists with items you cannot live without. Or perhaps you can, as closing down removes them and by the morning they are erased from not only your laptop's memory but your very own.

With such an enemy ready to pounce on its prey Lisa knew that the chances of actually keeping her resolution were slim. When she said resolution of course it wasn't of the usual kind. She had no plans to lose weight, stop smoking, run a marathon or meditate daily. Her commitment - she chose the word wisely - was to finally commit (how she loved that word) to paper the novel that had been in her head for as long as she could remember.

She knew of course that every aspiring writer has a book within them. And that the odds of getting an agent - never mind a publisher - were stacked against her in a similar way to the Euro Lottery rollover millions. But that wasn't the real problem.

The real problem was more to do with working out exactly what the book had to say and how to say it - along with fighting the enemy of course. There were moments of clarity - usually in the bathroom where no pen or paper was available - when she knew exactly what it was she wanted to say. There were times watching movies, reading magazines, browsing websites, when ideas came to her and came together in such a way that the biggest blockbuster since War and Peace met Anna Karenina and The Hobbit seemed just around the corner.

But the grim reality was that sat in front of the laptop, struggling to shape this work of art - or more accurately to write an introduction - Facebook and Twitter were exerting a pull so strong that even the daily target of 500 words seemed a mountain too high to climb, and as she sank a second glass of sauvignon blanc the muddled metaphors mingled with the movie on TV till Jude Law had assumed the role of her leading man.

The ad break snapped her back to reality and she realised a plan was needed if this book was ever to see the light of day.

Another glass of sauvignon, a swiss chocolate teddy bear and she was raring to go. This time her soon to be blockbusting novel was set up in a separate browser, so no easy swapping between tabs to see what those friends and followers were up to.

And like a thunderbolt from above the idea struck her. Which was a slight exagerration if she were honest as actually it was more like a thought that, along with procrastination, had been lurking a while. Somewhere in the back of her brain though and unlike it's pushy partner had been waiting politely to be allowed to speak.

This novel would not be allowed to wallow in Word, password protected until the forgotten word, with no reminder available, succeeded in keeping her from weeks of working, writing, reading and re-reading, editing and wondering if it all made sense.

It would not be printed and pored over, marked with pens and pencils, in a struggle to find perfection.

Instead it would be set free - chapter by chapter - into the big brave world of cyberspace. Unedited and with no real idea of where it is going or where it might end. The characters would come into the story as welcome guests, join the conversation, reflect and leave. The action - if there were to be any - would arise spontaneously. And the story's meaning, moral, purpose and conclusion would become clear as week by week it took shape.

Having decided all of this she sat back, took a deep breath, and read the first chapter. 699 words. Not a bad opening, except she wasn't actually sure what it was she had succeeded in saying.

But at least she had found a title. After all wasn't Cameron Diaz wearing a delicious pink fluffy jumper?