Imaginary Friends, by Catriona

But first a note from my ego:

I was gobsmacked and flabbergasted to get the news on Monday that In Place of Fear and Scot in a Trap have both been nominated for Anthony awards at this year's Bouchercon. Already looking forward to going back to San Diego, after Left Coast Crime 2020 was so rudely interrupted, I'm now fizzing with the prospect of getting to be on panels with Wanda Morris, Raquel Reyes, Ellen Byron, Greg Herren, Jen Chow, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Karen Odden, Mariah Fredericks and Lev Rosen.

Now we will return to our advertised schedule.

"Writers say they write because they have to. Is that true of you? What happens if you don’t write? Do you feel cranky? Bereft? Restless?"

Yes! But, my God, it took me a long time to work it out. I've been writing fiction since January 2000, full-time since June 2005, and it was only about four years ago that I connected a familiar feeling of crabbit aimlessness with periods when there was nothing creative on the go.

Don't get me wrong - I can take holidays. I have at least two weeks off every Christmas where I don't write a word and barely leave the fireside. Also, while I've never checked how long I can lie on a beach, reading till I'm hot, swimming till I'm cold, reading till I'm hot again, and then having a shower and eating seafood, A. I know it's longer than three weeks and B. I'm willing to do the experiment if anyone's got funding to cover it.  

But if there's ever more than a week in mid-April, say, or late October, where I'm not writing or editing something, I start to move furniture around and throw out my belongings. (I sound like a hamster with new bedding.)

I wonder what it's about. I'm going to go to the Post Office now and see if I can come up with a theory.

I'm back and here's what I've got (ad hoc theories for all occasions). I think I get lonely when I'm not writing. A first draft is like getting to know new friends and all the subsequent drafts are like meeting up again and hanging out with them. Maybe when I'm thrown back on reality I miss the companionship. It would certainly explain why page proofs don't cut it: there's no back and forth between me and the characters at that stage; there's only grammar and continuity admin.

It's similar to the way I still, after decades, miss my sisters when I'm getting dressed for an event. After being the youngest of four girls growing up, I regard it as a massive swizz when there's only my wardrobe to rake through for an outfit.

Now this theory might not survive the day but, whatever the reason for my grumpy restlessness when I'm not writing, I've developed a way of avoiding it. Guess what that is.

I write. 

Once you've picked yourselves up off the floor, let me explain. Because it's not quite as inane as it sounds. At the moment, for instance, I've just edited Dandy Gilver No.16 out the door (i.e. I've done everything I could do on my own and turned it over to the publisher, via my agent who checked for embarrassing disasters). Before that, I edited Last Ditch No.6 out the door. So I haven't been thinking about anything else since about last August.

A chasm was all set to open before my feet, once I had written a promised short story, some contract synopsis stuff, and an article for later in the year. Next Monday, if I hadn't had my wits about me, I was going to be all alone, no imaginary friends to play with. 

Hence, the item on my to-do list that made Neil laugh long and hard, and look at me as if I was some kind of weirdo.

But you know what? It worked. I can now cross off the third-to-last task on my six month to-do list, spend the rest of this week finishing up the short story and get ready to meet some new friends on Monday. No weirdos here.

Cx