A month after my baby was born, my mother died. It wasn’t unexpected; she had been seriously ill and partially disabled since 2007. But when someone is given a prognosis of 18 months or so remaining of their life, but fights for another four years, it comes as a bit of a shock when they succumb after all those extra years. One becomes used to the seeming invincibility of that person, however frail they may be. I had a very troubled relationship with my mother, and last year she was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder, which answered a lot of questions, and which was a huge relief to her because she said she felt she was finally understood. I will cover more detail in other posts, but I stood up to her last year and provoked a change in our relationship, received an apology from her for her abusive behaviour throughout my childhood, and we reconciled in the last few weeks of my pregnancy. I was (we were) lucky to end that chapter with no regrets. I’m just a little sad that I didn’t get to test that new relationship, to have conversations with her that I never would have dared have before. And I feel sad that circumstances meant she never got to meet her grandchildren in person.
I did successfully complete the first draft of my novel before my daughter was born. 156 days in a row of writing every single day. That’s five months. 111 days in a row of hitting a target greater than 270 words. My daily average across the six months was 317 words per day (so I tripled my starting goal). I feel very happy with what I achieved, and especially with the knowledge that I can repeat that process and succeed again any time I choose.
You would think, therefore, that I would be in the process of editing that novel, but, true to form, I’ve taken on something else. I’m in the middle of a major editing job on another author’s novel. I’m thoroughly enjoying it, though, and my client is a pleasure to work with.
So. Come up for air. Breathe. Dive.