It got me thinking about just how similar being a parent is to being a writer. Here’s why:

ONE

I love my son unconditionally – even when he’s been naughty.

I love my WIP unconditionally – even when it’s been naughty and won’t finish a scene or keeps changing things

TWO

My son is extremely unpredictable – apparently he already has a mind of his own

My WIP is extremely unpredictable – it is prone to change its mind suddenly, adding an unexpected twist or killing off an entire character mid scene

THREE

My son drives me to insanity – when he doesn’t know the right words to tell me whats wrong

My WIP drives me to insanity – constantly when it halts suddenly in the middle of a scene and refuses to tell me how it ends and all I can do is sit and wait patiently until it decides to play ball

FOUR

My son exhausts me – keeping me up in the middle of the night

My WIP exhausts me – keeping me up in the middle of the night either writing it, or waking me up having thought of ideas

FIVE

I am extremely proud of my son – every time he does something new or smiles, or breathes for that matter!

I am extremely proud of my WIP – writing novels is hard work, and I am really proud to say that I amongst my crazy life I still find time to write actual novels

SIX

My son costs a shit load of money!

My WIP costs a shit load of money – I buy software and dozens of ‘how to write books’ thinking it will help me write better, not to mention the obsessive notebook collection I have going or the expensive research field trips!

SEVEN

My son makes me repeat myself constantly – ‘eat with your mouth closed, it’s YES not yeah, don’t pull the cats ear…’

My WIP makes me repeat myself constantly – remember those pesky crutch words I spoke about? in the secret to the quickest edit you can do? There are just some words that I can’t help but repeat!

EIGHT

My son makes me shout at him – when he’s been very very naughty like when I picked him up from the childminder the other day and he bonked another kid on the head and then tried to bite his leg!

My WIP makes me shout at it – in frustration when it won’t play ball or it made me write something silly AGAIN, or tricked me and made me rewrite a chapter for the 5th time.

NINE

My son needs a lot of attention – he needs love, and kindness and story time.

My WIP needs a lot of attention – spent tapping away mindlessly at the keyboard, or hours researching or editing.

TEN

My son is a cause for celebration – the first time he walked, his first word… hopefully his first poo on a potty!

My WIP is a cause for celebration – and toasting the end of the first draft – the end of the first edit… hopefully one day…publication?!

If you’re a parent – how does your WIP compare to parenthood? Or if you’re not a parent – what does your WIP do to you?

This marks the last day of NaNo – if you participated – did you win? Was your target 50K? 

Next week, because NaNo is over I’m back to normal posts deconstructing the writing process see you then

The post 10 Reasons Why Being A Writer is Like Being A Parent appeared first on Sacha Black.

I am attempting to take more time for me now that I am beginning to get some semblance of routine back into my life. With work just round the corner an the end of my maternity approaching, I am trying to think more about myself and where I want to go. I don’t want baby black to grow up with a miserable mother – just because I carried on doing a ‘job’ that pays the bills. I want to be a role model for him, to show him if you want something bad enough you can do it, you just have to work hard. So, now I have a fixed laptop, it is time to crack on with my writing course. Incase anyone else fancies themselves a writing course you can find it here.

So my first assignment, and piece of writing I had to do was a piece of descriptive writing. I thought I would share it with you. It was an observational piece, and we had to choose somewhere of interest and describe it. Feel free to comment if you like:

In the distance an aeroplane rumbled, and I strained to find the contrail jutting out of its rear. Unable to see it, I meandered down the twisted wisteria walkway instead. This was the aisle I was meant to walk down on my wedding day. Sighing, I stroked one of the baby branches arching over the walkway and was surprised to find it furry and covered in moss; my fingers tingled at its touch. Its elder looked down watching it grow, bark as wrinkly as a grandmothers.

The gravel crunched under my feet, as I continued down the path. I halted as I glimpsed a hint of the pillar-box red oriental bridge in the distance. Veering off the walkway I headed towards the bridge to stand at the edge of the lake, I heard the quacking of a pair of ducks paddling in the pond, and the roar of a waterfall pounded the jagged rocks surrounding it. Staring at the pool beneath the waterfall, I wondered whether mermaids lived in the murky midnight blue depths.

I stepped around the end of the walkway into a huge open space covered in a blanket of green grass. It felt like I was entering a magical world. A towering pagoda stood peacefully amongst the trees and boulders around it. If you listened hard enough you could almost hear the clip clop of geisha shoes, and the flapping of kimono fabric in the wind. Poised at my feet, stood a single flower flecked with pink ready to battle the first frosts of spring like a samurai preparing for war. 

I inhaled deeply, and the sharp air cut my throat as it whipped my fringe into my glasses. I pulled my jacket tighter to protect myself from the chilly air and walked through the dewy grass towards the aged mansion at the top of the gardens. I placed my hands on the filigree garden gate, and shivered as the icy metal bit my fingers. A delicate spiders web quivered in the breeze lonely without its eight-legged owner. The stately gardens behind the gate were pruned to perfection, with chess shaped bushes and neat lines surrounding the majestic fountain centerpiece.  

Springs first sunshine kissed the mansions sandy colored bricks. Terracotta turrets bulged out of the roof, and evergreen coloured ivy crept boldly up the walls.  I walked away imagining wartime evacuees waving behind the mansions enormous square windows and running through the great rooms inside.

The post Writing appeared first on Sacha Black.

Like the TV advert, the wife and I decided to set up an email account for our newborn  son to open on his 18th birthday. We will spend the next 18 years sending letters, photos and videos to him in secret, so that his life with us is chronicled. I thought you may like to read my first entry.

My Dearest A,

You are currently my little sleeping beauty upstairs in your crib. I am hoping you are reading this on or around your 18th birthday, as we have now given you the password and account details for this account.

I want you to know, wherever you are, wherever we are, I am immensely proud of whoever you have become. I love you with all my heart, you are my world.

‘The Very first moment I beheld him, my heart was irrevocably gone.’ Jane Austen.

 

You’re 11 and a half weeks old, just shy of 3 months old. I look at you now and wonder how you came to be. It feels like you have been here my entire life, and yet, for just a moment, and already I love you with such immensity that it takes over my entire being.

I am still at home on maternity leave with you at the moment and will be for a few more weeks. I savour every moment of time I spend with you, because I will be at work soon and then every moment I spend away from you will be a moment wasted.

The best parts of my day are when you smile at me, or when I get to watch you learn something new. Your making lots of noises these days, and beginning to form a real laugh, and I can’t help but giggle every time you do; your learning to sit – although you scream in protest every time we practice, you much prefer standing up. You love your door bouncer and finally your starting to learn to roll over.

I am talking to my 18 year old son… I will be 44 by the time your 18. Oh my god, that seems like a life time away, I can’t imagine what I will be like at 44, or who I will be, let alone who you will be.

What do I hope for you? Firstly and most importantly I hope you are happy. I hope you have had a wealth of experiences, good, bad, naughty and ugly! I hope you are safe and well. I hope you have studied hard, and played harder, I hope you have loved and lost and loved again and I hope you have travelled.

Every parent wants their child to be a doctor, lawyer, pilot or some other well paid career. But I just hope that you have found something that will make you happy for the duration of your career, I don’t care if your a ballerina, a seamstress, a chef or a boxer. As long as you work hard you will be the best you can be, but enjoy whatever you choose to do in life, because life is too short to be unhappy…. but secretly I do hope you have chosen to go to university! I met your mumma at university and I am sure I speak for her too when I tell you how much fun we had at university, even during the all nighters trying to finish assignments.

I hope you enjoy the next 18 years of emails! It might take a day or two to get through!

Happy Birthday baby boy, I love you always and forever, mummy. xxx

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