It’s been a tough few weeks. Little man is too hyper to go to sleep most nights. And other family things have troubled my mind. I have found myself escaping. A coping strategy that I have long employed. There’s the bingeing on audiobooks when I am sat in the darkened hall waiting for him to drop off. Then there’s the Netflix binges if he does go to sleep-the reward for being blessed with an evening- that keep me up past my own bedtime.
It occurred to me this morning though I may have excellent reasons to escape my real life, I don’t want to lose the chance to have the life I want. I do deserve a break but still, still there’s the damn book. The one I am writing. The one that inspires me and comes to me in flashes. The one I am meant to write.
Sitting down to finally type up pages and pages of scrawled disorganised scenes this morning I resolved once again to escape into the world that I am creating. I often read that to write you need to read. I subscribe to this advice whole-heartedly but my aim this coming month is to use the novel as an escape. Not always, that’s not realistic. Surely it must be possible to sometimes indulge in something that does not distract my mind but instead engage it?
Does anyone else write in odd places? It seems appropriate to my own experience that I should write sat on the top step just waiting for the chance to creep down the stairs.