War and peace

I finished writing a book this week. There are 74,945 words assembled into 12 chapters, which should leave me with a nice sense of achievement, but there is nothing nice about it.

That's because when I write books I morph into a frizzy-haired, glassy-eyed, poorly dressed, bad-tempered, histrionic, middle-aged woman who rarely leaves the house and insists on stomping everywhere instead of using normal steps like everyone else.

"I'll never get it finished," I say every morning when I wake.

"Precisely what part of `leave me alone' did you not hear?" I say in the afternoon every time a floorboard so much as creaks in my direction.

"I am living a complete nightmare, when will it end?" I say in the evening shortly before I start drinking.

I cancel all social engagements with my friends, making it their fault that I can't see them.

"You'll only make me drink and I don't have the time to waste drinking and gossiping all day."

"No we won't," they suggest politely. "It might be good for you to talk about something other than your book."

"I'm sorry if my book bores you but It Is What I Do," I snap back.

I now understand why so many writers become reclusive. It's just easier that way.

I visit my counsellor, where I throw myself on her couch and begin to tear my hair out. She takes an hour to gently tell me to get over myself and I feel a bit better. She also points out that the last time I went to see her was when I was writing my last book. I think I have an issue around completion. I book another session. And then a strange calm takes over as I become glued to my computer, pulled there by some mysterious magnetic force while everything around me fades into insignificance. Then it's over. I take a picture of my office for posterity. It shows a desk covered in coffee cups, a bottle of Rescue Remedy, unopened mail, bits of soap and layers of books.

On the floor languish another 30 books with pink slips of paper marking relevant information, a few plates, a discarded slipper and some pictures of Venice, a cute country cottage and a picture of our house with the words "mortgage paid" written in red across it.

At some stage in my writing process I decided it would be inspirational to stick up my goals on my office wall to remind me why I was having this ordeal. I then just forgot to stick them on the wall. My high-tech sound machine, which emits recordings of babbling brooks when you press the "focus" button has died, the batteries exhausted. And my Himalayan salt lamp, which radiates calm energy, sulks in the corner, its bulb long since blown.

My book is completed just in time for my husband to start writing his next book. As I approach the finish line he sits down and starts tapping furiously.

"Sorry to interrupt," I say sweetly. "What's the difference between a glossary and appendices?"

He looks up patiently mid-sentence.

"Glossary is an explanation of terms, appendices are extra information."

"Sorry, know you're busy."

"It's fine," he replies.

When my husband writes books you'd never know it was happening. He organises himself beforehand. He writes to a strict daily schedule, he taps out words without a hint of angst or frustration, and does a very good impression of a professional writer at work.

He prints beautifully written chapters with not a hint of bad typing or grammatical errors and he still has time to go to the gym, walk the dog, cook meals, see friends and to be a nice person.

This is pointed out to me by our 12-year-old who has been on school holidays and largely ignored by her mother except when I've yelled at her visiting friends to be quiet.

"I think you'll find the creative process differs from person to person," I say as justification.

"Your mother's creative process thrives on drama," says my husband looking up from his computer.

"I'll be in my room," my daughter says before stomping in a familiar manner down the hall and slamming her door.

"What did you say about drama?" I say before I set out to see what it feels like to tidy my office.

www.wendylsgreengoddess.co.nz