(Pe?)NoWriMo – Or, Stop Procrastinating and Write a Damn Novel

I’ve always wanted to write novels.

And I’ve always believed I would – not just that I could, but that it was inevitable, as much an assured part of my future life as death and taxes. But that’s the kicker – that single word, future.

When I was young, I was sure that my status as a published writer would be bestowed by adulthood, that as soon as I got a little life experience under my belt I’d be belting them out as prolifically as Stephen King.

At university I told myself that as soon as my turbulent student days were behind me, I’d get that first novel done. All I needed was a little stability.

Two postgraduate courses and many temp jobs later, and I found myself in a stable, permanent job in a respectable industry, and I just knew that once I’d been settled in a while and felt secure, I could really focus on writing.

And that’s how one day becomes maybe becomes if only. And your dream can die many long years before you do.

The ideas don’t go away. They’ve been with me for years, characters I can visualise in my head as clearly as my oldest friends, plot points I’ve honed over dozens of bus journeys and idle minutes.

I just need to write the damn thing.

So, there’s nothing else for it. May will be my Personal Novel Writing Month (because waiting until November would just be one more excuse). I will draft this story from beginning to end if it kills me, or all my characters. I’m about to move to a new flat where I will, for the first time in many months, have room for a desk and a dedicated writing space. And I will use it, every day.

There’s really no excuse not to. There never really was.


Weaving the Threads: Raise a glass


The tanner was tired, his weariness bearing down on him like a solid weight. The day had been long, and the next wouldn’t be any shorter. Still, he trudged through the dark, his feet dragging a little but his gaze fixed on the light before him, nearer with every determined stride.

He reached the alehouse and pushed through the door gratefully, breathing in the warm, stuffy air and familiar rumble of conversation. He sank into a seat and sighed as the alewife set a cup of brew before him. The beginnings of a smile twitched at his lips as he reached out and —


— raised the glass to his lips, taking a long, satisfied gulp. The pub was packed on this early summer evening, but he’d found a spot outside in the beer garden and now he was waiting for the arrival of his friends. He was perfectly content to bask in the rare peace of the moment, the sun warm, the beer cold, everything as good as it gets.

His mobile rang, the sharp buzzing pulling him out of his vague reverie. He slipped it out of his pocket, glanced at the screen and smiled.

“Hey,” he said, “I was hoping –”


“– to see you tonight.”

He smiled as she sat down across from him. The colour of her dress shifted as she smiled back, glowing a warm orange, and the jewellery in her eyebrow and lip piercings synced immediately to match.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said. “What would you like?”

She glanced at his own drink. “What are you having?”

“Just a beer,” he said.

“Then I’ll have the same,” she said.

He nodded and tapped the console set into their table, selecting the beer icon. Thirty seconds later, a fresh bottle of beer with their table number stamped neatly on the label appeared on the conveyor belt that weaved its way unobtrusively circled the edge of the room. She plucked the drink from the conveyor and held it aloft.

“A toast,” she said.

“To what?”

She shrugged. “Tonight.”

He raised his own bottle and clinked it against hers and they both drank.

The Daily Prompt: Weaving the Threads