Writing life is for the demented. There, I said it. When I first started writing I had no clue about the path paved with rejections, promotional shenanigans, and the precipices of failure.
Movies, and yes, books, have perpetuated this myth of the glamorous writing life: in my interviews of other authors, I often ask what a day in their writing life is like. Not because I’m curious, because let’s face it I couldn’t care less about what the authors of the books I love do. It is enough that they write stories that transport, challenge and educate me.
With the rise of social media addiction though, where people are the ‘users’ and the product, it is de rigueur for authors to share their writing life. Readers seem to want to not just eat a sausage–they want to know about the sausage-making process.
Maybe my sarcasm has to do with a long and difficult writing day–where 2,000 words were very hard to come by, and in between writing sprints I sat and became a sort of voyeur (the very voyeurism that leads readers to want to know about the writing life of authors they follow).
I watched a vociferous game of Go at the table next to me, complete with internet searches, photographs and various arguments. A Muslim cleric in a dishdasha with his wife who wore a veil with only her eyes visible– the wife sat on a corner seat and lifted her veil towards the wall to sip her coffee. A couple of very handsome men who sat on the same side of the table and smiled soulfully at each other, the tatooed hand of one clasping the corporate shirt-sleeved hand of another. This is Singapore, so I suppose they felt quite adventurous doing this in public. A father and son who played online games, using three cellphones each, whispering to each other. Many meetings selling insurance, real estate, graphic design services. A white bearded Caucasian man carrying out a long meeting in fluent but accented mandarin.
An Indian girl had a long call with various members of her family, telling them how she was out alone at lunchtime, because her new colleagues didn’t eat vegetarian. In short order, she told her sister, her long-distance boyfriend, her father, her aunt the exact same thing : she hated her croissant because the staff had possibly heated it in the same microwave where they usually heated roast chicken. Maybe my earphones made her feel safe enough to speak in Hindi, because I was the only one who understood any of her conversation.
I sat amidst this cornucopia of life, and wrote dark words about murders and rapes, because that’s the crime writing life.
I sent out a newsletter with writing tips (you can subscribe HERE if you like curated writing advice.)
I made social media stories about the Kindle Deal on THE BLUE BAR in UK and Australia: it is 0.99 GBP in the UK and 1.49 in Australia at the moment.
In between cups of tea, I ordered (and then didn’t finish) a slice of cheesecake, then shitposted about it on social media. And managed to write about 2,000 words.
Now, back home when my brain is like a soggy marshmallow, here I am, talking to you. I’ll stay up late trying to work on promoting THE BLUE MONSOON (you can read ARCs HERE or add it HERE on Goodreads if you’d like to help out), and reading books that I’m supposed to review/ blurb. And way past bedtime, I’ll crawl into bed, dreaming of the other novel proposal I’m working on, the emails I haven’t sent, the anthology I’m hoping to edit, the novel out on submission.
Ah the glorious writing life.
What about you? If you’re a reader, do you wonder about the writing life? If you’re an author, do you get asked about your writing life? What do you say in response?
My literary crime novel, The Blue Bar is on Kindle Unlimited now. Add it to Goodreads or snag a copy to make my day. The sequel, The Blue Monsoon is up for pre-orders! And if you’d like to read a book outside the series, you can check out You Beneath Your Skin. Find all info about my books on my Amazon page or Linktree.
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