The shift from desktop software to Google Docs has made the practicalities of writing far more accessible in recent weeks. Being able to crack on with my work on my mobile, iPad, and PC has seen a huge shift in the ease with which I can work on my novel. I know this sounds blatantly obvious, what with Cloud based working being around for a wee while by this stage, but the benefit was lost on me amidst my pursuit of the fancy bells and whistles of a dedicated novel-writing program.

Consequently, I’ve been finding time to write even during my busiest periods; when I first wake up, between bites of my lunchtime grub, and even whilst waiting for a friends to arrive at the cinema (I’m notoriously early, and often find myself sitting around with 40 minutes to burn through). I’ve been throwing a few hundred words into these mini-sessions whenever they arise, averaging 500 to 1,000 words a day, regardless of how hectic my surrounding schedule is. In terms of productivity, it’s made me pretty gosh darn consistent.

There is, however, something I have noticed amongst these frequent moments of productivity. Each of these micro-sessions has felt like trying to trek through a room half-full of custard. The whole affair is sticky, messy, and uncomfortably awkward. The more I write, the worse this feelings seems to get. Putting words onto page isn’t the issue here; it’s the quality of the words themselves that’s bothering me. I’m over-describing one moment then failing to elaborate the next. Characters do awkward things and say unnatural things in the name of shoddy exposition. In one paragraph, I even caught myself unnecessarily narrating a thought process one of my protagonists happened to have months prior to the events of this novel. I’ve been hurling sentences and paragraphs out onto the page, but then I’m recoiling at the sight of them all.

My frustration, it would seem, appears to be stemming from two parts of my brain that are in conflict with one another. First, there is the creative side of my mind. Her mission is to get the darn story out of my head and onto paper, no matter the cost. She really couldn’t give so much as a monkey’s about anything other than getting it all out in the open. Then there’s the critical part of my head. She’s all about getting things done properly. Think of her as some snooty film critic who turns her nose up at even the most beloved of features. She isn’t so much concerned with whether the words are on the page, but how good those words actually are. She is the part of me that wishes to analyse, improve, and perfect. With these two sides of my mind fighting for space, it’s little wonder it feels like I’m paddling through a culinary desert sauce each time I open my tablet or computer. One part is trying to plough forward; the other is trying to slow down and assess the road I’ve already trodden.

While this has frustrated me over the last few days, I think I’m slowly beginning to embrace it. The fact that I’m pulling myself in multiple directions, constantly critiquing, second-guessing, and contemplating the way my story is forming, means my brain is actively working while I get the words down. All of it is messy and uncomfortable, but it’s a sign that my head is actually working. Perhaps the awkwardness and doubt are where this story’s unique voice will begin to form. While I might not be acting on all those corrections and problems right away, the act of deliberating over them is shaping the direction each subsequent chapter takes. Even in the poorly constructed sentences and tangential offshoots, the story is taking shape. It’s also giving me a whole heap of notes I can consult when it comes to drafts two, three, and beyond. There is much potential in the chaos, despite how stressful it may feel at times.

In a world where AI bots can churn out first drafts that feel sterile, lifeless and a touch too perfect for one’s liking, maybe that icky feeling in the pit of my stomach as I type is far from a bad thing. It’s the flawed-yet-unique human figuring out how her plot works whilst on the job. Perhaps the imperfections stemming from my flesh-and-blood brain are the signs of something awkward, unique, and brimming with potential. We’ve become so used to the idea of creating flawless texts, largely due to the surreal explosion of modern technology, that it’s easy to mistake the frustrations of creating art as something to fix. Maybe the whole point is to trek through custard, allowing both the creative and critical parts of my mind to wrestle with one another. Their conflict is causing my head to muster up all sorts of ideas within every sentence I commit to this project; keeping things moving in weird and wonderful new directions.

Sure, it’s stressful at times, particularly when doubt or fatigue are causing me no end of psychological bother, yet it is starting to feel all too necessary. Not everything has to be a dazzling success on the first try. In this circumstance, I’d argue it shouldn’t be. I need a scruffy, weird, convoluted blob of text, so I can chizel it into something more palatable later on down the line. There will be plenty of time to polish, refine, and improve later on. Right now, all I must do is write, ponder, and see where on earth all of this sentence spouting takes me by the time I reach the tale’s end.