Alcohol. (On your own, I hear you cry.) Surely writers and wine go hand in hand? Maybe they do for some but I have to plan my indulgence, and, in the genius words of Elmer Fudd, be wery wery careful. You know what it is like, you catch up with friends, get a large glass of wine, get another as you think it saves time going to the bar (oh the hassle), and the next day the only word I can spell is ug. This would be great if I was writing a caveman epic, but I feel more is expected, somehow.
Sanity. Did I just mutter that plot point aloud? Am I in the company of strangers? Uh. Oops.
Socialising. Yes, sadly this also has to be measured. That fantastic story idea won’t write itself. There will be invites to turn down, holidays forfeited, events missed, exhibitions unseen. Friends will wonder where you have gone. Heck – even I wonder where I have gone!
Elegant fingernails. Forgetaboutit!
Sleep. I stay up far too late plotting and get up far too early so I can do some more before real-life job. Mostly I cannot sleep anyway for thinking of stories and words and plot points. I wake up at odd moments in the dark and think ah-ha! I have been known to turn on the light and scrabble for a pen and notebook. I have also been known to resemble the Grinch the next morning.
Pert butt. The odds are sadly not in our favour with this.
Eyesight. (Squints) I am surrounded by computer screens. In-between travelling from one computer screen (home) to another (work) I stare at my phone instead. The very rare occasion when I am not bathed in sickly light from a monitor I find myself eyeballing a television. I think my eyes hate me.
Time. (Glances up) Is it summer?
But this is the life we choose, my friends, and I think we'd all agree - it's worth it!