It’s important, while writing novels, to make sure you’ve slipped into something more comfortable while you work. I do a great deal of my writing in the early morning, when I first wake up, and this means that I tend to work a lot in my pyjamas. I’ve spent the last few days finishing book number 23 (yes, let’s all pause a minute in due reverence), and I was struck by just how unglamorous this writing gig is.If you’re squeamish, stop reading now.
The last few mornings I’ve set my alarm for 4.30 a.m. I’ve been wearing a light cotton nightdress because it has been so hot here in Brisbane. Humid, sweaty, violently hot. Even sleeping with the aircon on has been a little sticky. So there I was in my nightie and breakfast would come and I’d eat it and I’d keep working. Eleven o’clock would come and I’d think, “I really should shower.” Then I’d step out of the shower and look about for something cool and comfortable to wear and… well, it was right there, folks, so I put the nightie back on and wore it all day, then to bed again, and so on. On the second to last morning I spilled an entire cup of tea all over self and floor and notebook (not computer, thank God). I sponged the nightie out and let it air dry. In my crazy-artist paranoia, I had begun to believe that the nightie was the thing that kept me writing. If I took it off to wash it, I might lose my powers; like Samson when he gets his hair cut. I wore the nightie for almost 72 hours straight in one the hottest weeks of Brisbane summer. It was foul. When I finished, I finally peeled it off and showered. Free of the fetid nightie, free of the deadline.
So next time you think writing is a glamour career, please remember the story of the fetid nightie. And when the book comes out (go check out Kimberley Freeman’s blog for more details), stay in bed with your own stinky pyjamas on, just to keep in the spirit of things.
*This blog is so named to honour my Sistah Sal, whose birthday was on finishing day, and who thought it would be a good title for something.