I’ve never been one of those people for whom Monday morning looms like some mythical monster at the end of the weekend. I’m not saying I’m someone who welcomes it with open arms, apart from that brief period in 2009. Back then Monday mornings meant getting out of the tiny apartment I shared with my then two-year-old son, hundreds of miles away from all friends and relatives, and back to the office where I could chat (flirt) with the gorgeous young French developer on the team. I mean engage in purely collegiate exchanges concerning the topics of the day.
In 9th grade I remember it was Tuesdays I hated because they started with double Science. Our science teacher was this very scary Scottish woman that we were all secretly terrified of.
But Monday is … what is Monday? Just another weekday. The first weekday. For me, Sunday is the problem. Remember Sunday nights? Homework nights. You knew you should have done a little bit here and a little bit there over the weekend, but everything always got left till the last minute. Sundays are the days you feel you should be squeezing every last bit of enjoyment out of because another week is about to begin. Talk about pressure.
As I walked home this evening, the lights on the bridge changed. When it lights up like a rainbow, it reminds me of Bifrost, the rainbow bridge to Asgard. Which reminded me of the Magnus Chase novel my son insisted I read, which led me to thinking about the Percy Jackson books he got for Christmas and how reading them gave me an idea for a YA novel. That was when I knew I needed a plan.
I – foolishly I think – promised to have the first draft of my historical, French Revolution novel ready before I go to London and see Les Mis again. But before I do that, I really should finish Chocolates On My Pillow. I owe it to Anne. I think she really needs me to finish her story so she can get on with her fictional life, not remain in this perpetual limbo I’ve kept the poor woman in for the past three years.
Monday is the beginning of a new week. I need a new plan if I’m ever going to finish that book. I have to stop worrying about paying for editors or reaching out to agents, and just finish the damn thing. It’s a story I need to tell because there are some things from my past in there I need to close the door on.
When that is done, then I can start my historical novel. When that’s finished, then I can write the next one. Sometimes there’s nothing worse than having a myriad ideas, because there isn’t enough time for them all right now. I have to prioritise, I have to choose. I have to stop making excuses.
I have to – oh help me – establish a routine.