And so, on the last day of January 2014 this tired old scribbler hauled her considerable ass over her contractual finishing line. First draft is now on the desks of my editor and my agent. I do not want to hear from them for at least two weeks, I don’t care how fast they read. I want my life back.
For the past month I’ve not looked up from my desk. Well, okay, apart from the ten days I spent inside a pantomime cow skin. For the past twenty days I have not looked up. I’ve neglected my friends, neglected my blog. Haven’t painted my toenails. It’s no way for a girl to live. And here’s the thing. I’ll have to pull off the same party trick next January. I’m not, pace T S Eliot, measuring out my life in coffee spoons. I’m measuring it out in thick wodges of diary. Something has to change. I need a best-seller. Suggestions on a postcard, please.
And how am I going to spend my first weekend of freedom? Well, I’m considering staying in bed with a bottle of cough linctus and Walter Sickert . The only trouble is, 700 pages, hard-bound, I’m not sure my arms have the strength to hold him. I intend giving it my very best shot.
Crossing the Bar is of course a lovely Tennyson poem, sometimes set as a hymn. I’d put it on my funeral wish list only I fear the line May there be no moaning of the bar would provoke inappropriate laughter in the many members of my family who have worked in pubs. I could risk it. It’s not as though I’ll be there.