It has been three hundred and eighty-six days since I made the decision to write with serious intent.
On Day 71 I began entries in a red Moleskine notebook in Le Touquet, France. Nothing says serious writer like a Moleskine Notebook, does it?
Since then I’ve written fervently. I’ve written depressively.
I’ve had more ideas that I can get written frustratingly.
I’ve improved in my craft, but I still make some dumb mistakes.
I’ve planned and I’ve written without knowing what was coming next.
I’ve read my favourite authors and some of it might have rubbed off – Lee Child. Ian Rankin. John Le Carre. Michael Connelly. Haruki Murrakami.
I’ve read and listened, via audiobook, to advice on the craft: Reacher Said Nothing and the Making of Make Me by Andy Martin, Stephen King’s On Writing, and Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit. I’ve watched John Le Carre’s talk on behalf of Medicine Sans Frontiers about his life and craft.
I haven’t published a book yet, but I’ve written three, and had kind words from one of the top agencies about one.
I decided to listen to a new album everyday and I’m taking heart from the fact that there is some really good music out there which gets nowhere near the mainstream outlets. This is almost certainly true of writing also.
I’ve taken Seth Godin’s advice and undertaken to write in this blog everyday.