Boredom and the aspiring writer

So, after what has been a very miserable few weeks with too much introspection and one too many goodbyes I took myself on a walk this evening. I have discovered that walking keeps me sane. One of the many reasons I so want a dog, to force me to walk daily. I KNOW that when I am down, lethargic, crazy or confused, a walk will clear my head and leave me feeling alive and dare I say it, happy. However, despite this knowledge, when I am struck by all except the last state I find it very hard to convince myself to leave the house and take this much needed medicine. I say all this in order to convince my mother that my having a dog will be a good thing and that she should let said dog stay over at Christmas. This evening was no different. I had been telling myself for about four hours that I must go for a walk. I had walked a lot the day before and as is always the case on walking days I had felt very content. By the time I managed to get myself outside the rain had not only started but decided to settle in for the evening. I did consider letting that be my get out of jail card for a second...then I put my scarf around my head and one foot after the other, walking in the general direction of the river. This is always my default walk in any place, head to water if you know there is water, failing that just walk. There is something great about knowing that whatever else, I always have my legs. Well, right now. I feel very trapped by poverty, which does seem to steal freedom. But the minute I walk I feel as though I can not only take on the world but that all the world is mine to take. Just keep walking. This makes me feel happy. Before I know it, whatever problem it is that got me walking in the first place is completely forgotten and I feel invincible.

Tonight's walk took me to the river, along the river, across the river and into Shakespeare and Company. The English bookshop opposite the Notre Dame. If there is one other thing that gives me this sense of contentment and freedom it is a bookshop, or a library (sob). Looking at all those books makes me want to drink up every tiny last part of human experience and knowledge and also makes me want to scribble my pen furiously and escape to an unknown world. It was my fifteen minutes aimlessly staring at the untouched books that made me decide that what I needed most in the world was to go home and write. I decided there and then that the focus I was so desperately needing was going to be my book and I was going to write for at least thirty minutes a day. This may seem paltry but thirty minutes a day not sucked up by school is a rare luxury and one has to be realistic. So off I marched home. Full headed with ideals but no ideas. I had the key to my own happiness. Writing. I would write myself to another world and away from my own troubles. This was it, I had finally had the spur and kick needed to get this book off the ground and into the Booker shortlist. And then I arrived home, removed my wet clothes and felt my numb fingers seize up. Okay, a cup of tea first. And maybe a quick search online for a classical radio station, I do like a bit of classical music to go with my creative time. Oooh, maybe I'll read a bit whilst my fingers warm up? I can't write while they are like this. No, reading will take you out of the clear head space you've found yourself in. Oh you're right. Okay, well maybe I'll re read the last bit I wrote. Good idea. Oooh, that is actually rather good. I like that. Mmm...I don't want to write about cleaning up her broken arm though. Should I start at another point in the book? What point? Well, who knows? Be a shame to ruin the notebook when I started off writing as if that was the beginning of the book, it is such a nice notebook, maybe I should just write this next bit, get it done. There goes the kettle. Lovely, I do love a cup of Camomile tea. Yum. Okay, so where was I? Should I put the dinner on? I'm really not hungry. Drink the tea first and see how you feel. It is late though, maybe I'll just start heating the frying pan. Okay, so...'Jack lay her down...'

And I was off writing. I was bored whilst writing but at the same time, as is always the case I found that by simply putting my pen to the paper instead of thinking about it the characters started to reveal themselves to me. Plot lines started to appear, the little ones that bring the big ones together are hard to see until you just write. At the end of all of the planning and ideas you simply have to put your pen to the paper and see what happens. I have been avoiding this because whenever I attempt it, it is hard work. In fact, the story tends to flow out of the pen and there is a real sense of excitement and wonder that you are bringing people and events to life without knowing what you were going to write. I know the main event of my novel, themes I wish to explore and what I want to achieve but everything else is a mystery. One that, happily, solves itself whenever I just write. The truth is though, planning and dreaming is so much more fun than doing. And that is not even true completely, I was really enjoying what was starting as I was writing but I also couldn't wait to put the pen down and go back to reading another persons book.

My theory is that I find it hard to settle as I don't have the real and proper time to dedicate to the writing. Life interrupts. However, the truth is that the settling down to write will always be arduous, just like any other job. It's the getting the routine that counts. I hope, that like long distance running, after the first three miles it gets easier and into a rhythm, until the last three or four miles where you are running on empty.

Now the question is, do I give myself the time off to go write by the sea when I am free of this Paris or do I simply suck it up, move back to London, start running and get used to writing in snippets. Like real writers do? What I want is the acting to take care of itself so I can just write. But as I am finding with both careers, they both still need work to get them done. I think I must rethink, surely a Fairy Princess is less taxing? Or a Space Cowboy? I mean, what is there for a Space Cowboy to do? Space is just full of floating rocks.

Ah, dream, dream, dream, dream, dream...who invented the real world. Someone get Christopher Nolan on the phone, I want to go into Inception.