It took eight months - but I’ve finally got my mojo back
THIS week I threw my latest book in the bin. I’ve been working on it for the guts of a year. I have produced over 100,000 words -– most of which have ended up on the cutting room floor. For some reason, this book has been absolute agony to write.
I know it’s a good idea – probably has the best plot of any book I’ve ever written. The characters are good; I’m writing about the magazine world of 1980s London, a time and place I know intimately and the theme is interesting.
There was absolutely no reason why, as my mum bluntly put it, I can’t rattle this one off. Yet, a couple of weeks ago I came down from my attic, the only place I can now work, after four hours of waiting for 200 words to drip out of a vein.
Not, indeed, that I can sit in front of the computer these days. For the past year I’ve been in and out of the kitchen, even more than usual, snacking, distracting myself from the pain of writing.
There is no way that writing should be this hard. I sat down in front of my husband and put my head in my hands. ‘This book is driving me mad.’
When Mammy can’t write it is serious stuff. My novels are still our biggest source of income and if I don’t produce a book my editor likes — on time — we don’t get paid.
Instead of roaring at me and saying ‘get back up those stairs and finish that wretched book’ – which is what I’ve been saying to myself for the past 11 months – my husband looked at me gently and said, ‘maybe you need to put it away and start another one.’
Naturally, I went beserk. ‘I’ve spent nearly a year working on this,’ I shouted, ‘it’s a fantastic idea! Everyone is really excited about this one. Our son had said it was the only book of mine that he might actually consider reading!’
The Teen nodded. He loves when I lose it for my art.
‘That’s all true,’ he said, ‘but if you’re not feeling it…’
‘Gah!’ I stomped out of the room and my ire sped me back upstairs to polish off the first half and send to my editor for feedback. I waited for a week.
Nothing. Rosie speed reads books in 20 minutes. Something was wrong. So I rang my agent. She told me not to panic and reassured me that my publishers were not going to drop me.
Then she told me to speak to Rosie myself. They’d clearly had a ‘protecting the author’ conflab, pre-empting a meltdown. I didn’t mind them talking. Both women are top of their game and the fact that they are talking about me means they still care.
I took a good, hard look at the book, came up with a few fixes and with a heavy heart rang Rosie.
ROSIE is an old-school, hard-core editor. She discovered Maeve Binchy and worked with her for 24 years. No need for false flattery: I know she thinks I’m a great writer otherwise she wouldn’t bother with me. It’s never me, it’s only ever the book. We had both agreed that this was a great idea. The era, the characters, the plot. There was no reason it shouldn’t work.
‘I’m just not feeling it,’ she said. Then, I shocked myself by saying, ‘Neither am I.’ Writing has always been my escape from everyday life. I could travel back in time, travel across continents – often rooting back into my past and my family history. But my life has changed. Parenting takes more time and energy as I get older. I need, and want, to be more present in my own life.
I don’t want to travel anywhere any more. It’s too far. Too hard.
What do you want to write about?’ Rosie said. ‘What would feel is easy for you.’
‘Present day, small town Ireland,’ I said, ‘the stories that surround me now.’
The idea has been brewing for a while, but I didn’t think it was ready to come out until I had finished this one. I pitched it, she loved it. ‘Exactly like Maeve,’ she said, ‘I think we’re onto something.’
Five days in and I’m flying. It took eight months of lost work but I’ve got my mojo back.
Although, I do hate it when my husband is right.