Having consumed two rounds of wholegrain toast, smeared heavily in marmite, washed down with a Baltic cold pint of water, I’m crouched on Tuesday 28th July’s starting blocks ready to partake in today’s literary race.
Actually, race is probably the incorrect noun in the previous sentence. After all, you can’t rush writing these narratives. I set myself no timescale or deadline to complete the work, the only self-imposed parameter that of meeting a 500 word minimum.
I’ve learned on this lexicological voyage that creating a narrative takes as long as it takes; rushing the prose potentially diminishing the quality of the end product. Each blog takes between 2-3 hours, depending on have innovative I feel on any given day. Followed by a period of draft editing; a process in itself taking up to an hour.
Even after an hours edit, there’s many a time I’ll read the final posted piece and spot a grammatical or spelling brain burp. If truth be told, a fresh set of eyes is required during the editing process. On occasion, yours truly misses incorrectly posted text, witnessing the error as how I thought I’d written it. A faux pas a proof reader would’ve no doubt identified.
No, when it comes to penmanship, I follow the mantra of ‘act in haste, repent at leisure’. For a writer, sentences/paragraphs have to be formed with the tenderness, care and love bestowed on an offspring. With your guidance, allowing it to organically grow into something of which you take great pride.
Of course, this comparison of nurturing a baby from conception with moulding a narrative from a blank page isn’t without flaws. After all, the gestation period of a baby in the womb is significantly longer than writing 500 words. Not to mention, delivery of my blog to the world’s eye is a great deal swifter and pain free than a babe’s arrival proves for it’s mother.
Footnote – Clearly, I’ve never given birth myself; I failed the interview at the ‘genitals owned’ stage. However, I’ve it on good authority, from someone who did pass that stage, it’s akin to expelling a tin of Quality Street from their body using only the power of pelvic muscles and copious smatterings of colourful language…… That being said, the speed at which these Quality Street tins are diminishing in size, that analogy may soon be rendered archaic.
I was present at the birth of both of my kids in the early 1990’s. Experiences with joyous outcomes, however, occasions rendering me with feelings of utter helplessness. In an attempt to mitigate my lack of input to proceedings during the birth of my first child, I’d the foolish notion of urging my wife throughout the birth with yells of “Heave!”
This half-assed action, rather than aiding her, only serving to paint me as a demented rugby scrum half, urging his pack to secure dominion in the scrum. It took my spouse many months to forgive this idiocy, and even longer to muster the enthusiasm to once again watch a rugby game on TV!
For completeness, I want to ensure readers I don’t randomly, or indeed unrandomly, shout “Heave!” when posting my literary offspring out onto the worldwide web. That action is undertaken in a far calmer environment than a maternity delivery room, consequently drama levels are significantly lower.
Of course, I love my two (now adult kids) more than I do my literary outputs. That being said, the narratives cost me a great deal less money, so don’t get too complacent Jonny and Rach!
