And I’m too shattered to write. I managed about 100 words earlier though, so I’ve not slacked off completely. I’m actually looking forward to the weekend, to going full throttle and dedicating hours on hours of time to getting all the ideas in my head, out of my head and into my novel. I can’t wait to make the most of having energy which isn’t expelled at work, leaving me drained and uninspired by the time I get home. This challenge is both taxing and exciting, I feel at once motivated and burdened. It’s a strange thing, the best thing about creativity is the initial dream – the rest seems to contradict the idea of being creative, the physical act of creating something involves work, and work suggests method, task and production. Creativity, to me, is the opposite of work – it is freeing, it has no structure, no logic, no order – it comes from the heart, not the head.

But it is this thought that prevents many novels from every being written – because while the idea is wonderful, the reality is disappointing. Until you reach the end of the road, when the feeling of elation, pride and achievement will cloud any memories of the frustration of writer’s block, the self deprecation of missing self-made targets along the way, the constant battle with your conscience to NOT just give up. I just need to keep my mind on the goal, because I have always been a quitter, and for once I refuse to give up.