On the writing front, things didn’t go bad last month. They just went everywhere.
All over the place.
After finishing one story that was dear to my heart for a long time, I lost my focus. I didn’t quite know where to go next, so I dabbled in a lot of freewrite, bits of journaling, slivers of memoir, blog posts.
Despite the short holidays that disrupted my routine, I managed to write almost everyday, mainly during the boys’ nap (not that the big boy takes nap, but he’s happy to keep himself busy with his own toys while the baby brother is not there to mess them up). I had a few glorious sessions writing in a Parisian café (despite the cliché I love, love, love it! the humdrum of quiet conversations and the banter between garçons is white noise to my ears, except if the neighbors are literally under my nose).
I hate when my family is too close nearby when I write, but writing in a public place is rather conducive of my creativity. I’m a city girl at heart. I read somewhere that Jane Austen wrote in the drawing-room with everyone in the same room going about with their private conversations and activities. How could she do that exactly?
I got a lovely feedback on my story, which is very encouraging, although I haven’t quite found the type of venue where I could submit it. But submission *is* indeed the plan! Can you see how I have gained confidence? I’d never have dreamt of it last year. The last time I submitted anything was before my big boy was born. And even more exciting plans are in the make (I don’t want to jinx it so I won’t say more for now).
By the end of February, I have – at least – settled down with one decision: I have taken my stash out, reviewed several interrupted stories and I have decided to try finish two of them at least, even if they come to no good. No deadline, no pressure. But I am just tired of having these drafts gathering dust and the guilt associated with it.