Well, look at me with my winner’s badge.

Passed the 50K mark tonight. So tired I think I may be sick. Chugging a celebratory glass of wine because … y’know … I feel I have to, really.

Book isn’t finished, but I’m going to take a holiday from it for a few days and hope that doesn’t break the momentum. Of course, I may get withdrawal symptoms and have to keep going or else I’ll get terrible DTs…

For now, though, I’m going to bed. For about a week. With my wine. But you know what? I bloody did it. Yes I did, and I’m proud and slightly hysterical about that. Thanks so much for all support and encouragement; I appreciate it, and Steph, there’s no one I’d rather have as a copy editor if that time ever comes.

Now all I have to do is finish it…

So close. So very close.

3000 words to go, but unfortunately I seem to have lost the ability to type. Tonight, in a marathon push because I know I’m going out tomorrow night and will be too tired to put anything coherent on the screen when I get in, I successfully made the transition from competent typist to utter spaz-hands. I think I have RSI in my mouse hand, and all my fingers have seized up. (I’m typing this with my nose and tongue. True story.)

However. 3000 words to go. That’s THREE THOUSAND OF YOUR ENGLISH WORDS to go. At this point I could practically sneeze that many.

That’s my target for the day, and it would be easy except that I have to go out tonight. I’m going to play recorder with a good friend, and we always spend more time laughing than we do playing so it’s not a chore, but nevertheless – that’s valuable writing time, that is.

I’m also slightly unsettled because I’ve finally got to the point in the story where I can introduce my main male character, and it was always my intention to bring him in with a bang (literally) in a sex scene. The writing up to this point has been staid and safe, but I really need a sharp contrast with this character – sex, drugs, violence, and rock & roll, as opposed to the main female character, who is sensible and prim.

However, because I’m going out tonight I’m trying to get a few hundred words down while I’m preparing supper, and the bloody children keep appearing and looking over my shoulder to see what I’m doing. I have to keep flicking between windows and pretending I’m just looking at Facebook or something – hardly conducive to producing steamy prose…

However, allons-y. As the actress said to the bishop.

Hit 32K words tonight.  I know this is an amazing achievement for someone like me who is working almost full time, editing on top of that, running a house and family of five and also maintaining a weird sort of pseudo-social life involving relentless orchestra rehearsals and children’s parties and swimming classes.

I know this, I really do. However, I find myself humbled (and ever so slightly disheartened) by this person. And I also know this is churlish, and uncharitable, and actually I should be cheering kateness on to more and greater things.

But fuck me. 50K words in a day? Current total 535K words? Four books? That’s just showing off…

Actually, just in case the legendary kateness should happen to drop by, I’m geninely full of admiration. I know I could never do it, even if I didn’t have three kids, a job, another job, an out-of-work partner, two cats, an orchestra, another orchestra, a choir and some friends. So you go, kateness. I’m flailing in your wake, but at least I’m still flailing.

Hit 25,000 words last night. And bugger me, but I’m tired.

This weekend I have:

• music classes this morning (in about an hour);
• the house to clean this afternoon before guests arrive (dear friends, lovely to see them and everything, but MrH invited them YESTERDAY ffs);
• a concert to practice for and then play in (this evening);
• two editing jobs to make progress with;
• a training course (from work) to read and get started on;
• a trip to the supermarket;
• and the NaNo novel.

Oh, and spend time with my kids, and, y’know, eat and sleep and RELAX. Cos that’s going to happen. Sheesh.

A client rang me yesterday to ask if I would be able to drive for an hour to her house, pick her up and take her to the radio station where she has been invited to talk about the book I’m editing for her. Then sit with her, and drive her home, and then come home myself. Without being paid. Today. I was very polite to her, declining as gracefully as I could, but as soon as I got off the phone I had to kick the children out into the garden for ten minutes so I could curse and swear and march round the kitchen inventing new words for people who assume no one else has anything better to do with their time than chase around after them. (My current favourite hybrid expletive: fucksticks. Not sure what it means, but I use it a lot. In my head, unless the kids are down the garden.)

However, 25,000 words. In 13 days, actually;  I hit the target last night, in a sandy-eyed push just before midnight. I may include fucksticks in today’s contribution – there’s 25,001 words right there.

Remind me why I’m doing this?

Have decided I’m not liking this any more. It’s hard work, and my story is going through a boring bit where I’m moving the main character from one place to another and nothing really is happening apart from lots of tedious scene-setting and exposition. I’m still some distance from the half-way point, and right now another 30K words of the same old shit seems like a tall order if I want to retain my sanity. Today’s 1500 words were like pulling teeth.

However, I guess that’s the point – to keep going through the boring bits until the good bits come round again. I’ve read (on NaNo forums and elsewhere) that there comes a tipping point at about 25K words, and another at about 35K words – the first at half way, and the second when the finish line appears dimly on a distant horizon – when it all suddenly gets a lot easier. I guess it’s like running a marathon – the 10 mile to 15 mile stretch is tough, because you’re already bloody knackered and you’ve still got an unspeakably long distance to travel.

So I’m pushing on, hoping that I don’t hit The Wall too hard and that it will be all downhill from 25K. And yes, I do realise that the whole enterprise is utterly insane – but also, I feel, rather splendidly and eccentrically heroic. A lot like running a marathon.

So – two days back at work and the writing still seems to be going well. Actually, I’m surprising myself; I seem to be able to knock out 2,000 words a day pretty much without breaking a sweat, while also editing another book for a client. I’m already up to 18K words, aiming for 25K by the end of Friday (officially two days early to be reaching the half way point).*

Of course, I’m convinced it’s all utter shite – poorly written, loosely plotted, cardboard characters and with more inconsistencies than you could shake a stick at.** However, it’s there, registering in the word-counter, and at this point that’s all that matters. As a wise (or possibly foolhardy) person once said, December is for editing.

One minor irritation, however, is that MrH and all three of the Hawthorn saplings have fallen by the wayside in our joint adventure. The Boy was the first to fall; he made a cracking start, but then lost his mojo when he realised that he didn’t know how his story ended. I tried to point out that that didn’t matter, but he wouldn’t be re-motivated and has now officially Given Up.

The girls lasted a bit longer – to be fair, I think they’re technically still in the game, but neither of them has written a word to my knowledge since the weekend, and they both seem very relaxed about this so I suspect they won’t last much longer before admitting the inevitable.

MrH is the most disappointing, though. He was enthusiastic to the point of obsession right up to the point where he had to actually sit down and write something – his planning and research were meticulous, and he worked up a really good idea for a children’s book. (So good I almost pinched it. Wish I had now.)

At this critical point, however, his natural apathy kicked in. He dragged out 1500 words over a hugely painful two days, and then threw up his hands in disgust and gave the whole thing up as a bad job. Which is annoying, since he was the one who persuaded me to do it in the first place.

However, he is doing a great job as a cheerleader. I think he thinks I’m writing the next Harry Potter/Wheel of Time/whatever other fantasy franchise you care to name, so he’s obviously desperate for me to finish and find a publishing deal so he can retire and live off my enormous earnings. I fear he may have a long wait.

* Eyes right to find whizzy NaNo wordcount widget. May be slightly broken at time of writing, but it was there earlier, I promise you.

** What does that even mean? Who ever shook a stick at anything? Why would you?

Day four of NaNo09 (or, as I prefer to think of it, The Month Of Writing Dangerously*), and I’m pleasantly surprised to report that all is going rather well. I’m up to 8.5K words and haven’t even written anything today yet; aiming for 10.5K by the end of the day.

This is well ahead of schedule compared to the 50K/30day daily average, but it was always my plan to hit the writing hard this week. I have a week off work (extra week of half term, as a consequence of working at a private school – bunch of slackers that we are), and I know that when I go back to school next week and for the rest of the month it’s going to be SO MUCH HARDER to find the time or energy to write.

So here I am, nose to the grindstone. Or rather, here I am, churning out a few non-NaNo words and wishing they could count towards my daily total.** I’m also editing a rather demanding book at the same time – written by a dyslexic author, and it’s really more of a ghost-write than an edit – and I have another client wanting to ring me from Germany to go through the query sheet I sent back with an edited manuscript, so all in all – not much of a holiday from work.

Specially for Steph – a while ago I invented a system for magic-use whereby mages need a paired individual who acts as a ’source’, or conduit through which magic power flows. The mage can draw on that power and shape it, but has no independent access to magic without their partner. Similarly the ’source’ individuals have no ability to shape magic or cast spells; they are simply passive channels.

My NaNo novel is an exploration of this idea. There are lots of social possibilities – pimps/whores, exploitation and trafficking, addiction, relationship formation and breakdown – and at the moment I’m not sure which way the development is going. I’ll keep you posted.

Back to it. 10.5K, here we come.

* Shamelessly paraphrased from the NaNoWriMo website. I’m nothing if not liberal with my plagiarism.

**Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. I should give my main character a blog and just cut/paste a load of posts from here… Maybe when I’m desperate at the end of the month.

Well, actually, on not writing. My publication rate here has dropped – I seem to be managing a fairly consistent rate of one post a month, but that’s simply not good enough. Not so much a blog – more of an occasional rant.

I’d like to say this is a fresh start, the fightback starts here, from now on I’ll be publishing insightful, witty and daily posts and gathering a huge and loyal following along the way. (As opposed to the tiny but loyal following I currently have – hi Steph.) However, no can do. Y’see, in a moment of utter madness I’ve signed up here.

NaNoWriMo. The name is clunky, nasty and embarrassing to say in public. The concept is insane – a novel in a month? 50,000 words? In a month? That’s – wait a moment – 1667 words a day. HOW MANY?

The idea is simply to write 50,000 words in the month of November. And that’s it. No more rules. The ‘novel’ doesn’t even have to be finished – it just has to be 50K words long at midnight on the 30th, as verified by an online word counter. Intense, insane, and completely counter to the way I normally work as a writer (think, research, write a few words, rethink, rewrite, more research, realise I got it completely wrong, delete, repeat).

And yet… it may be the only way I’ll ever actually commit to paper (or to the screen) the story that’s rattling about inside my head. It’s not a great story – fantasy fiction in the grand tradition of Robin Hobb or J.V. Jones – but it’s in there, and it wants to get out. Or rather, I want to get it out, because it’s making the place look untidy.

So here I go. Tonight at midnight I’ll be sitting down at my computer with only a copy of Word, a pot of tea and a 100,000-strong community of fellow strugglers across the globe for company. MrH is also taking part (and is far more likely to finish than I am, since he’s now back in the land of the unemployed – more of that particular unpleasantness some other time), and two of the three Hawthorn saplings are planning their magnum opera*, so there won’t be much in the way of conversation in our house for the next month.

So, for the next 30 days at least I have an excuse for not posting here. In contrast to the rest of the year, when I have no excuse other than sheer bone idleness and a lack of any degree of motivation. 1667 words a day. Wish me luck…

* No, really, this is the plural of opus. I looked it up. Who knew?

I’m never allowed to be ill. It doesn’t compute in our house that the person who makes the hot drinks, wipes the fevered brow and administers paracetamol and Nightingale-like care and compassion to everyone else when they’re under the weather should be able, every so often, to relinquish those responsibilities and languish in a darkened room herself, Lemsip at her side, while partner and children tiptoe about and whisper in hushed tones about calling the doctor and maybe the priest.

No. See, what happens is this. One of the kids contracts something minor but inconvenient – a bad cold, say, or a stomach bug. They suffer for a few days, and maybe pass it on to one or both of their siblings. They also suffer, while I dish out Calpol, provide sick buckets as required, tuck them up in blankets and buy the local shop’s entire stock of Lucozade.

Inevitably, however, after some period of time I contract the ailment myself. At which point, two things happen simultaneously:

1. The children make miraculous recoveries (except when returning to school is mooted, when they relapse and suddenly develop high fevers and sometimes even short-lived rashes). They start bouncing round the house, stir-crazy because of their few days’ confinement and leaving a dreadful trail of destruction behind them.
2. MrH also contracts the illness, but much worse than me. If I have a temperature of 39, his is 41 and rising. If I’m sick twice in the night, he vomits four times and he thinks there might have been blood in it. If I feel dizzy and faint, he collapses on the kitchen floor and has to crawl slowly and painfully to the living room where he just manages to make it as far as the X-box controllers before collapsing again.

So my sick days most often consist of trailing the children wearily around the house making good the worst of the damage, trudging to the pharmacy to replenish our supplies of medication, and caring for MrH, who is clearly at Death’s door with only just enough strength to drink endless cups of tea, play Left 4 Dead for hours and yell at the children when they come into his field of vision.

Come to think of it, MrH has always been one for coming out in sympathy when anyone happens to be ill. When I was in the early stages of pregnancy and incapacitated with nausea and crippling tiredness, I clearly remember him telling me, in what he obviously imagined was a sympathetic tone, that he also felt a bit sick. Decency forbids me to relate my response.

Not that I’m bitter. Not me. I’ll just go and make myself another Lemsip. Sniff.