Some time ago I had a writing blitz. A weird inspiration took my fancy and, uncharacteristically, I ignored the housework, the kids, Stepford Husband and the outside world in general and I focussed on this inspiration that my Muse had blown to me like a kiss.
I liked what I wrote. And I was relieved because after publishing my first book last year, I was worrying that I may have been a one-story wonder. This new story was fiction and it was just for me, until I discovered a competition that fitted the parameters of it almost perfectly.
The competition required the story to be 2000 words and I was 4000 over, but upon rereading it (still in the longhand that I torturously write all my first drafts) I discovered a very natural ‘ending’ that occured earlier in the piece. At the 3000 word mark. My challenge was to ‘lose’ one thousand words and get it into shape in 12 hours so that it would make the competition deadline.
Stepford Husband very kindly took the reins and the washing duties of the household and I got the work done. With no procrastination. At all! In fact, I couldn’t wait to shove unexpected visitors out the door so I could work on it some more (sorry, Mum).
It was cleansing, it was life affirming, and best of all, it was fun. Stop laughing. It’s true, my hippy trip side does tend to come out on joyous occasions. Such as this one. Because I won.