3

"I'm just not sure I'm that good at writing dialogue," the girl said, her chair hard and uncomfortable. She shifted around unconsciously as she sat with her head in her hands.
The older lady barely moved. "What makes you feel like that?" she said. To be honest, that was mostly what she had said for the last 20 minutes. Counselling did not seem like a difficult job.
The girl shrugged. "I don't know, is this how people really talk? I doubt myself a lot. And god, how do you make a character witty if you're not witty yourself?"
"What makes you think you're not witty?"
The girl stared at the plasticky coffee table in front of her. Talking about things would be easier if they provided coffee. "People sometimes laugh at what I say but I'm not sure that's the same thing as being witty. And it's usually situational, I'm responding to what's already been said. When I'm the one who said the last thing...it's harder to bounce off things,"
The older woman nodded slowly. "Like me for example?"
The girl agreed vociferously. "Like you! I mean, no offence, you seem really nice, but you're just asking questions so that I discuss my feelings. You're not even a fleshed out character, you're just there to get me talking,"
The counsellor put a pen to her lips. "The problem is that this is what counsellors do. Ultimately I was written to offer you a way of putting your feelings about writing dialogue down in a dialogue form. It's hardly fair to then accuse me of not being a fleshed out character when my character was chosen as someone who usually listens and encourages the other person to talk,"
The girl looked bashful, it was the longest sentence the counsellor had spoken. Her tone had been even throughout but she still felt admonished. "Sorry, I hadn't thought about it that way. I'm sure if this was an exercise about description I'd know a lot more about you,"
The counsellor nodded. "Or about personalisation. Ultimately I'd say you just need to really listen to the way people talk. In the same way that you've been analysing what you read for style, really listen to what people say and the rhythm of a conversation. Anyway, now you're going to be late for work,"
"You're right," the younger girl responded. "I may come back for another session, I think this actually really helped,"

2

Having a sofa in the kitchen is not the adventure you'd think it would be. You'd think it would be all "I'm tired of cooking now, I'll have a nice sit down!" Especially because it's a sofa bed, so that has all the benefits you'd imagine (like a bed...). But it doesn't go like that. Firstly, it's on the other side of the kitchen table from the cooker, which means my first stop is to sit at the table (and doodle on the laptop; it's been a wonderful purchase). Secondly...people stay. Now this is fine for a limited period, but the issue with this house is that it is essentially one big room. All open plan. So if you sleep on our sofa bed, you essentially sleep in our kitchen, in our living room and in our bedroom. There is no privacy. This is even less delightful than it sounds. When not in use by guests it only serves as a receptacle for clean washing. Can't be bothered to carry washing upstairs? It's fine, leave it on the sofa! But it's not fine. In some ways I'm getting to be a functional adult. I work, I pay bills, I cook, I clean, I'm pursuing a childhood dream. But the laundry ridden sofa reminds me of the fact that deep down I am a scumbag.
On the childhood dream thing, I need to stop the jealousy. I don't get jealous of published authors (why would I? They've written books for me to read.) I get jealous of people in the same position as me, but maybe a bit further along. Yesterday it was some chick who'd won a short story competition, and I wished they'd chosen me. Which makes no sense, as I wasn't aware of the competition, didn't write anything, and didn't enter my nothing. Reminds me of that Futurama episode where they give the Oscar to the guy who wasn't nominated because he's Zoidberg's uncle. I suppose perhaps I'm jealous that they have things together more than me. I wish I'd got on with this sooner. Because I genuinely believe writing could make me happy.
However. I'm 1/3 of the way through my novel, with a good awareness of the major things that need editing (read: everything). Once I've finished it, because no, I won't be side tracked, I'm going to start entering some short story competitions. Live those dreams.
Whether I should reduce my working hours to live those dreams is something I'm still weighing up.

1

Writing first thing in the morning has been recommended to me as good practice for writers. God knows why. I wonder if the brain is actually better at thinking of things immediately. To tell you the truth, I haven’t really started writing this first thing. I’ve been awake for the best part of an hour now, I’ve got dressed and made my breakfast; I’m even eating it right now. People are discussing fireworks on Facebook (it’s going to rain on our picnic). It’s all, really, not how it’s supposed to be. However, I’m supposed to be a writer. I wonder if I didn’t work, whether I’d actually write more, or if I’d just piss around more? I’m churning out at a pretty decent rate at the moment. Well, depending on who you read, probably not if Terry Pratchett. And to be fair, all those great writers’ daily word counts you came across were probably aristocratic and reading what they wrote was probably impassable. I’m not exactly writing great literature. Having said that, the more I write the more I wonder if there’s not a little bit of Emperor’s New Clothes about writing. I’ve never really been into authors who are considered to be “great”. I just wanted the story, and the words to convey a feeling and a place and an experience to me as effectively as possible. It’s funny though, that different authors can be incredible at one thing and a bit rubbish at another. Robin Hobb is the best author I’ve ever read for characterisation; it’s like she’s lived many lives and knows exactly how someone would be feeling. But pacing? Sometimes I get excited that something is about to happen, which of course never does. Or something big will happen, and everyone will then continue banal everyday life as if it never did.