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...