Right now I'm in the middle of pretty intensive edits of my fifth book 'The 30 Something Crisis Club' which is due out in September.
With a tight deadline and a determination to make this the best book I have written to date, this has become the most intense writing experience of my life.
I feel as if I should be holed away in a bunker sitting in front of a dozen computer screens all containing various versions of the work in progress which I glance between while swivelling on a very swivelly chair. There should be silence. And darkness. And a wee hatch which opens every now and again to allow in a fresh supply of wine and chocolate. If I smoked I would imagine I would be chain smoking through this entire experience.
Instead, however, life has to go on as normal around this mega writing fest. The full time job still needs the attention a full time job requires and my children still require the care and affection of their mother. The dishes still need washed and the toilet still needs cleaned and Tesco still needs visited once a week for supply buying purposes.
Instead of my darkened room I write on the sofa. Or at my desk in work at lunchtime. I write to a soundtrack of Fifa 11 on the DS (thanks to the boy) or Mr Tumble on the telly (thanks for the girl). I take nappy changing breaks, and baking buns with the girl breaks and driving the boy to football practice breaks.
I have a constant inner dialogue between a case of characters running in my head - which is both slightly schizophrenic in nature but also slightly exhilerating. I spent more time with my laptop than my husband. I can hold no conversation which does not include the words "edits" "book" or "gah" in them.
In the last three weeks I have written 25,000 words in my "spare" time. I am both buzzing at the thrill of an increasing word count and exhausted with the effort of it.
But this morning I sent the first 25,000 words to my agent who responded with a triple "Love it" declaration... so hopefully, just hopefully, I'm doing something just right.