It’s Sunday again, which for me is my official writing day. Every Sunday when I am well enough I drive into town, get a coffee and write, it’s become a well established pattern and I absolutely love it. The weather is not a happy, summery blue, but rather cloudy and silently moody, with the occasional drizzle; not enough to make anyone use an umbrella, but enough to plaster their hair to their faces if they walk in it long enough. I’m seated by a window and watched as a girl around my own age walked past, slowly, as she carried a full bin bag and a duffel. Either there was a break up during the night or people have begun moving out of their student houses.
Conversations are buzzing around me while I listen to french music I don’t understand, but like all the same. I’ve got a caramel macchiato by my side that’s made with soya milk, but on top there’s the caramel syrup which I indulge in, even though it has milk in it. It’s like my little guilty pleasure, knowing that I’m consuming milk, but it’s not enough to make me poorly and so I always do this.
I’ve arrived to the point in my book where the climax should be and so on cue my brain has entered a phase of performance anxiety. This would always be the place where I’d start a new story because the current one would halt. Not this time. I have worked too hard on this one; first draft, redrafting, rewriting, replanning. I am finally at the final draft and I’ll be damned if I give up here (honestly, it won’t happen, even if I have to sit here until my bones turn to dust).
I am very stubborn at times, not just the kind of stubborn that is required when you have to battle on your freshly washed skinny jeans, but the kind of stubborn that keeps you from talking to someone for a good portion of time just because even though you don’t remember why you were angry at said person you know you had a very good reason in the first place (it’s not a good quality to have, so don’t follow my example. I’ve been working hard to shake this habit during the last few years!). I’m the kind of stubborn person that will take my friend’s purse and send her to the bar with my debit card because she is refusing to let me pay the next round, and only give her back her own money when she’s returned with the drinks – that’s what happens when two people who like treating others to drinks meet, we’ve learned to switch turns because it’s the only way to keep both of us happy.
My point is: there’s enough stubbornness in me to sit here, coffee after coffee, until the words on the page start pouring out more freely. The right music certainly doesn’t hurt, so I’m still switching between playlists in order to try and find the right one. I am fully prepared to fight this block, and win, and I’ll happily wear the crown of temporary defeat until it can be traded for one of victory.
– Martie xx