Day 5

It's Friday so I allow myself a lie-in. After all Tom is out for drinks with his colleagues tonight, so I can work as late as I like.

It's the end of my first week, so once I've checked e-mail I decide to review how the week's gone. I re-read what I've written, and I'm not happy with it. It doesn't sound the way it did in my head. It's as if I started out going to the opera, and somehow ended up watching badly dubbed porn starring a 60 year old fat woman.

I need to spend a bit longer over my text. I can't just bang away at the computer and produce poetry. I'll have to take out the filler words, and crimp more style into the words that are left. Perhaps add a few quotes. Some subtle and witty references. And cutting and pasting those paragraphs from on-line newspapers and hoping to work them into the story later hasn't panned out.

10,000 words a day is too much. I do a word count.

427.

I'm far off my 10,000 words a day, so far I'm in another country. My average this week has been 106 words a day. I need to do something radical. I need to read.

Anything. As long as it's good.

"I need a book".

The librarian looks at me and smiles.

"An inspirational book".

"Self help is over there, my dear".

"No, I don't need help. I need fiction. Inspirational fiction".

"Novels are at the back dear. Alphabetical by author." She is using that tone reserved for the mentally ill, or those prone to sudden violent outbursts.

I grab four novels at random and beat a hasty retreat back home. I start skim reading, but then find that one of them is actually quite good. It's about a woman whos twin died at birth and she spends her life in mourning for the sister she never knew. It's like there was always something missing. I haven't managed to read it all the way through but there are tears in my eyes, and I need a cup of tea before I can start writing.

10 pm

I'm ready to write. Really ready. Ideas are clambering over each other competing for space on the page. I'm ready to let them flow, but decide to have a prophylactic cup of coffee in case I should get tired mid-stream.

11 pm

Nothing. Another cup of coffee. Make it a pot. I'm determined to write. Tonight.

12 am

Still nothing. I drink a glass of wine to counter the effect of all the coffee.

1 am

I wonder where Tom is. Not like him to be out so late. In order to make sure he's alright I sit and imagine all the terrible things that could possibly have happened. After all I'm convinced that nothing I can think of could ever come true. Unfortunately I have to imagine every variant - a knife, a gun, a car, a truck, a plane crash - this takes quite a while, and is quite tiring, especially as I keep wasting my time on totally ridiculous events. I don't need to protect him from a lightning strike - after all it's not even raining. I have another coffee.

2 am

Still nothing, and the coffee is making my stomach acidy, so I decide to finish the wine and throw away the bottle. Besides this makes me look less like someone drinking alone. I feel quite sleepy, but also quite alert. Like a tiger. A graceful predetator. Orange stripes.

6 am

I lurch awake, head pounding, throat dry, mouth sore.

"Do you want to save changes". I save.

I notice the word count.

5897.

Impossible.

5897. 5897. 5897.

I review the text. It's good. No, it's not just good. It's great. Shocking, gory, sweat-making. A story that leaves scars. I don't know how I've done it.

It's not finished, but I am. My throat's sore, and my mouth's tastes like the bottom of the recycling box. Glass of water then bed.

But when I get to the kitchen, I forget all about the water. Every bowl we own is on the counter-top. Every bowl. Every plate. Worse than when I go away for the weekend and Tom doesn't wash-up. It's as if we've had a break-in by the honey-monster. His 90s television success has turned him to a life of excess and criminality, but left him with a strong urge for sugar-coated cereal. Half-eaten bowls of the stuff are everywhere.

It gets worse. We must have ran out of cereal. Some of the bowls are full of dog food. Wet and dry. Nibbled, chewed, slurped up, digested.

Make that half-digested. I run to the toilet retching.