Time is a strange thing for a writer. Sometimes it passes at a luxuriously leisurely pace and you can spend a whole morning deciding whether to name a character Desmond or Donald. What do you mean, does it matter? Are you crazy?
Then, often without warning, time scrunches up into a log jam of tasks that must be addressed immediately. Like this week. Suddenly page proofs were ready for checking and could they please have them done and delivered by next Tuesday, bearing in mind England and its postal service is in the middle of a Siberian winter. Plus there was an interview for an American newspaper, a bunch of emails to answer and the gas engineer to call, again.
I was able to deal with the Pittsburgh Examiner while dressed in my pyjamas, so thank heavens for email interviews. By 7 am this morning I achieved warp speed, cracked on with the proofs between mouthfuls of porridge, delivered them electronically by early afternoon and yes, feel like I got shot through a particle accelerator and met myself coming back. But I predict that next week I’ll be able to spend several slow-moving aeons tinkering with one pesky paragraph that’s been giving me trouble. It’s all to do with light and gravity and stuff.
So there you have it. The Laurie Graham Theory of Time. Next week, Black Holes and Creative Writing Workshops.
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