On January 24th I wrote a blog…. ‘Not writing a radio play’.
This is the other side of that coin.
OK, guys. This is where the rubber hits the road and other overused clichés. Oh, I know, the energy implied in that phrase fools no one. I’ve had a call from my Producer/Director and found myself lamely agreeing to a delivery date three weeks away for the first draft of a Radio play and just four weeks later for the final draft.
Cripes! Why did no one stop me? Why didn’t you all shout “No! Don’t do it!”? There’s stuff to do in the real world, I’ve got two books on the go, and there’s Isaiah demanding attention, and a load of cleaning to be done now that the painters have vacated my house, there’s dogs to walk, a magazine to put to bed (another cliché… it’s the mood I’m in), and there’s exciting stuff going on in church, there’s a book deal to sort out and there’s these blooming’ blogs that keep seducing me…. PLUS there’s a TV treatment to deliver. Why am I wasting my time talking to you?
Tonight… my little dumplings… is the night for a long long session. An all-nighter, I think. I just love an all-night writing binge. I’ll try to switch off now for a few hours, sort of ‘gearing-up’, maybe doze in front of Master Chef, then have a shower at about ten, pj’s thick socks, cardi, cashmere stole (thanks Em and Beth), put the fire on, make sandwiches, wrap ’em in cling foil for the inevitable belly-flop of energy at 3am, and then I’ll get to it. Lovely lovely writing.
This is the view from my desk, one night last month. I love writing at night, just as I loved nursing at night. There’s a stillness and peace and other-worldliness to the night time. A sense of solitude that could be overwhelming, but somehow isn’t.
Mind you, the last time I tried an all-nighter I ate my sarnies and went to bed at half three. So I may not last quite all night. I used to, I used to write a solid ten hours, then take Lou to school in the morning, and do a day’s paid ‘proper’ work. Couldn’t do that now.
I am so very grateful for every minute, for every word, for all that God has given me, the friends… oh, especially the friends. Who would have thought that I would end up here? This clumsy unwanted child who barely spoke for a year and then didn’t stop speaking for ten years (and generally mucking about) and was classed as educationally subnormal, and wanted to be a nun and then became a soldier and then a nurse and went through a disastrous marriage, and then an OK one…. and at 20 came off a motorbike going far too fast on Charing Hill, and at 5 was on a plane that crash landed at Orly airport, and at 22 was on a boat that lost its prop off the Isle of Sheppey, and that same year slept in a tent that blew away on Beachy Head on Christmas Eve, and damn near wrote a Jag off in an argument with a fox many years later. Who would think that a lost wandering gypsy, plagued by bad dreams, who lost her Mum when she was 6 and her husband when she was 43 would one day be 70 and bung full of joy?
I never thought that would be me. The bad stuff, yes. The good stuff? This? No, I never imagined that would be me. Deo gratias. Very very gratias to God.
The God to whom I belong. Belong. My favourite word.
So, bye for now. Gonna slouch around for a few hours and then get to it. Seriously. I am!
I am. Shut up… I am!
See you at the end of the Radio play.