Black Hours Diary No 6: Writing enema

Right. Okay. That was a bit of surprise. From one of the most creatively constipated days in the last couple of years, I’ve gone to the most productive. Yesterday I managed to write almost 6,000 words. And I’d probably say they were 6,000 good words, “perky” words to quote Alis Hawkins.

It was even more surprising after not sleeping very well the previous night, getting that fuzzy-headed, blurry feeling the following morning without much inspiration floating about at all. So I got up, swayed about a bit, squinted at the bright blue sky over Sheffield and sat at my desk with a cup of detox-tea and a bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes, dreading switching on the laptop.

When I did find the courage to boot up the PC, I didn’t go straight to The Black Hours folder, but opened a brand new Word document and began writing a short story called “The Inheritance of Henry Judas”. It’s a story that’s been floating about my study on various bits of paper for the last few months, and I thought ‘what the hell, if I’m going to write shit today, I might as well write shit about something completely unrelated to The Black Hours.’

An hour later, I’d written 1,800 words.

‘Fuck me,’ I thought, ‘where did that come from?’ I really didn’t expect to write much beyond a few hundred words, followed by a blue funk that would be better spent in the garden catching some sun, and finishing Seventh Son by Orson Scott Card.
No, 1,800 words was certainly a surprise.
The Inheritance of Henry Judas is a character piece, about a man who profits on his dead parents’ possessions, only for those possessions to haunt him later on, and it’s a subtle story (or will be if I ever finish it). What those 1,800 words did for me that Sunday morning, was give me a creative enema that could have been a flash in the pan (excuse the pun) but in the end it proved to be very, very productive.

After a break to make another drink, I transfered my writing space outside to take advantage of the glorious weather; I set up the garden furniture, brought out my trusty ASUS pocket laptop, and settled down to work on The Black Hours, with still a little trepidation. Last week’s writing was saggy in places and I expected more of the same stilted prose…

After an hour, I’d written another 2,000 words.

I’m on fire. Bloody hell. Is that what being possessed is like? I don’t actually remember writing those 2,000 words; it was all a bit of a daze. I remember looking at the laptop and my hands dancing over the keyboard, but not the actual effort of creating. It was odd. When I re-read what was typed, it was even odder. The words just leapt from the page – some of the best writing I’ve done in years.

By three in the afternoon, I’d written 4,000 words, and under the merciless heat of the sun (how hot was it yesterday?) I called it a day, utterly spent and very pleased with myself.

I’m not sure how it happened. I’m not sure if it was divine intervention (I doubt it), but there was definitely a blockage last week, and writing that short story cleared it. I didn’t need to take anything, was completely sober and didn’t even have to resort to taking a long walk. I’m not even sure where the inspiration came from – it was just there, hiding in the shadows.

So I’m back now, the mid-draft blues have lifted and I’m very pleased, if not slightly bewildered as to why. I promised that if I did find a cure I’d tell you all, but I’m not honestly sure what the cure was.

Maybe it was just timing.
Maybe it was the lovely weather.
Or maybe it was down to the inheritance of Henry Judas…