I can’t remember if I mentioned this, but I recently joined a writing circle. It was something scary and proactive I committed myself to after my recent manic depressive meltdown. Do one thing every day that scares you, as Eleanor Roosevelt once said.

Since university, and barring the recent abortion of the play I was working on with Little One, I’ve only really been tap-tap-tapping away by myself, in my own dimly lit corner of North London. It was ironic perhaps to think that I always worked with my back to the window, never seeing the many other little windows lit only by a bedside lamp or a computer screen. As a result I completely lack discipline; motivation; a friendly ear (or indeed mouth) to say “God, I know” when talking about how impossible it is to find the time to get stuff done, and then to use it properly once you do; and, perhaps most importantly, feedback. Because anything I produce comes entirely from my own universe and the laws that govern it, I’m completely unable to deal with criticism. I take it too personally, perhaps even as a criticism of myself. It was perhaps rather fortunate that the first piece I submitted as a sample was distributed to the group without my prior knowledge for discussion - had I know I’d have spent ages agonising over what to send. As it turned out I just took a snap decision. Fortunately, everyone’s feedback was very positive. And I learned a new word that day. Confidence.

Anyway, I received an email just earlier welcoming a new member to the group. Apparently she is looking to get a UK book deal (who isn’t?), and is concerned about showing her material to the rest of the group in case one of us pinches it. A resonable concern I think, and one most probably shared by every single person round the table. This is the wonderful conceit about writers - you’re far too preoccupied worrying about people stealing your own ideas to even think about how to go about pinching someone else’s.

Reading this email gave me a sort of mini shock. Perhaps even a flicker of recognition - a half chewed memory found at the back of the fridge whilst hunting for margarine. There was something familiar in this weird idea that authors can get published if they:

1) get up off their Sims2-playing / Merlot-glugging arses (not that, as far as I know, my arse can glug Merlot, or indeed Cabernet Sauvignon. I certainly haven’t tried and don’t think I’m about to);

2) actually (and get this bit) submit stuff to agents and publishers; and

3) perhaps most important, ACTUALLY WRITE SOMETHING.

Thus my resolve has been galvanised into movement (you see how the repeated use of words containing the letter ‘v’ somehow adds a sense of force to the sentence?). My plan for this weekend is thus:

I WILL:

1) Make up a list of agents to send three chapters of Beasts of the Field to;

2) submit three stories from True Beauty to a specific agent;

3) finish a short story for the writing group (which will hopefully make up part of the above submission).

I will NOT:

1) Drink so much I forget who I am, what a pen does or how to spell Thesaurus;

2) so much as touch The Sims 2;

3) spend all evening talking to boys and then pass out in a post-flirtative heap dribbling dozey drool onto my spacebar;

4) spend all night at Jon’s on Friday and Jim’s on Saturday drinking so much I forget who I am before talking about boys and passing out in a post-commentative heap dribbling dozey drool into respective friends’ sofas.

Bring on the night. And the coffee.