As I wait for Penguin to get back to me with their thoughts on Book 3 I am trying to get a headstart on Book 4. It is the first time I have written without a looming deadline for a few years and it's liberating. When you have a deadline pressing down on you it is hard to feel anything but disappointment at the end of a day's (hour's) work. That depressing 'should have done more' shame. But now every word is a bonus I can feel proud of my above-and-beyond-the-call efforts even if it's just a thirty minute burst at naptime (claudia's naptime, not mine, motherhood has irritatingly robbed me of my ability to snooze during the day.)
Oftentimes I daydream of a life where can write when the mood takes me, and WHAT the mood takes me too. Starting a new book is a massive committment. There comes a point when you are past the point of no return, you can edit and rewrite later but essentially your story, your characters and particularly your world are your ball and chain. I think perhaps that was my mistake with book 3 and a half, the one that never was, which my mum calls (love this) The Fluffed One. I realised too late into The Fluffed One that the world - glamour models - had been demystified and was no longer (ironically) glamorous. I'm sure it was whan I started. Instead of bravely ditching the tale, no matter how far I had gone, I tried to bend it and shape it and make it better when I would have been far better off retracing my steps and starting again on an entirely different path. It was like staying with a bad boyfriend rather than admit that you'd wasted all that time.
Never mind. Lesson learnt and all that. Onward. Broadcast Whores. They're still glamorous right?