Are you irritable? Tired? Prone to snapping? Do your temples ache from the synapses buzzing in your head? You might be suffering from an incurable itch called writing.
When I was a child, writing was a romantic occupation. I’d write a few words then get out the colouring-in pencils and draw a flower. Or a sunset. End of story. As an adult, writing is considerably more of a chore. A chore – but a chore that needs doing. Friends notice the difference in me when I don’t write. They say, you’re more irritable. You seem unhappy. And why are you ALWAYS so bloody angry?
I never thought writing was like anger management, less so therapy. It’s more like a building under renovation.
Take this building. It sits on a keen junction in Holborn. It has been redecorated at least twice since I have lived in London (about nineteen years). At the moment, recently seen standing on a set of pillars so spindly it looked like the whole thing could come crashing down, the builders have ripped out its guts leaving just a hollow shell. Writing is like this, particularly writing novels. It’s a constant state of renovation. You patch things up then another part needs doing. The architectural rendering never matches the final outcome. And no one likes the end results anyway.
Oh, stuff the analogies! It’s just plain hard. But it’s something I gotta do.