'Write hard and clear about what hurts.'
- Ernest Hemingway
Rain drops descend from the sky, running down the windows as if in slow motion. The heating in the house is turned up, and a sense of cozy serenity established. Nobody else is around, just me and our English Springer Spaniel, yet I feel completely at ease with being alone. I make a cup of coffee, a little extra sweet and find something to eat, a pastry of some description - possibly a croissant, toasted - eating while sat on the sofa, music playing softly, while I daydream out of the window.
I'll sit on the sofa the rest of the day, the foot stool pulled forward as a makeshift desk, a blanket haphazardly thrown over my legs and a oversized sweatshirt covering me which I pull over my hands in moments of deep thought. I alternate between writing in a notebook and on my laptop. Continuously throughout the day, I have music playing, some songs to suit the mood of what I am writing, others to match my own mood, and others still to ground me in my serenity.
While my brain is alive, with ideas jumping from my brain quicker than I can manage to type, I feel tranquil. Like I am completely at peace with life because the words flowing out of my are the rivers of my future streaming ahead. There's no writers block even looming over my mind as a threat, and the imagination gymnastics that accompany a thrilling idea overcome me more than once.
Taking a break, I get another drink, something else to eat. I read for a little while, check social media. Then I return, without any delay or distraction. I continue to write. The warmth of the house making me feel comfortable, at home, and confident that the stage on which my ideas are performing is one where I feel completely welcome. I keep writing, and experimenting, and making notes on future plot points and character, until everyone else comes home.
And I stop. Not because I have to, but because I've had such a productive day that although I want to keep writing, I know enough to be able to pick it up the next day. The evening is reserved for spending time with the people I care about most, and inquiring about each of their days. Mine was filled with warmth and comfort and beauty threaded into each line I wrote.
I may not get many words down, in fact I may have not even began to truly write, but that time may have been spent fleshing out the plot and my characters to a point where I wonder if they are real, because they feel real to me. But I may have written many words, completely smashing through my usual goal of 1,000-1,500 words a day. I could fall somewhere in between. It doesn't matter. For a truly great writing day to exist, I just have to have felt like writing time was used effectively to figure out what does and does not work for my story, even if that means scrapping everything I write, or experimenting with a new version of phrasing.
Writing days should not be judged by the number of words on a page, but by the feeling the words that do exist has given you. An ideal writing day is one where nothing is working against you, and instead of fighting to find an idea, you're fighting to keep up with them because everything, even the minute details many would think insignificant, have all finally fallen into place.
Enjoy it all
Hollie x