I've come to the end my week as a quasi full time writer. Seven days of wall-to-wall 2nd draft shenanigans (with one day off in between to experience what it's like to step outdoors and feel the sun, wind and rain on my face).
All in all, it was a very successful experience. At times it was sublime, other times frustrating, but overall it was something I enjoyed. Yes, my dreams of being a full time writer have not been shattered by endless hours of sitting in front of a computer, not speaking with another living soul, and living off packets of Cheese Doritos.
However, there were a few items noted for improvement for my next foray into full time writing:
- A bigger and better computer. Not to hurt the feelings of my Dell laptop bought back in the heady days of 2004, but staring at a petty 17inch screen for too long ain't good for the old noggin. The Nurofen had to be cracked open a couple of times to erradicate severe mind cramp.
- A reduction in hours worked each day. Some may say 7.5 hours a day is a bit pissweak, but I found I had no time to do other things, like leaving the computer to experience that funny thing they call LIFE. There was a two day stretch there where I hadn't left the house; I found myself talking to bees outside my window and wearing tissue boxes on my feet.
- A comfy chair. Not necessarily a deluxe leather super comfy chair but something that doesn't have a wooden back or a seat that contours to the ass of someone who sat in it in 1979.
Other than that, it all went very well. Thirty nine hours of rewriting and reviewing, 20% of the way through the 2nd draft and, as can be seen from the Noise Reduction meter, nearly 20,000 words culled from the manuscript.
A long way to go but a very, very successful week - both in output and experience.
As celebration, on my last day, I ate a large Pizza Express American Hot pizza and garlic bread right before bed. I read an interview with Jack Nicholson about the making of The Shining from an issue of Empire and then hit the sack. That night, the pepperoni taking its toll on my digestive system, I dreamt that I had looked back on my week's worth of writing and found the manuscript consisted of only one sentence, repeated over and over:
"All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy."
Reality was, I hadn't written anything that good.