It’s not lost lost. It’s in the house. (Um, I think). I distinctly recall taking it out of my handbag whilst going . . . well, somewhere, someplace where I obviously didn’t want to chance dropping/losing/misplacing my words. Only now the safe place I stored my notebook might as well have been inside a fucking BEAR TRAP for all the good it’s done me. There’s nothing safe about being COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY MISSING.

Neither strictly a diary nor a note depository, my moleskine kind of spanned the two, a no-man’s land for thoughts and ideas about my novels, including a list of possible titles, notes about my characters – birthdays, parents’ names, education, distinctive characteristics etc. – and nonsensical free-writing. It’s 50+ pages of my tight, loopy handwriting and the surreal outpouring of the more fantastical contents of my head. It is not good that it’s been mislaid.

What bothers me most is that it was a gift from Claire, uber-BFF and rootin’, tootin’ advocate of Vikki Blake, my literary alter-ego. It probably wasn’t her intention, but this notebook? It was one of the best gifts I’ve ever had, for – intentional or not – it symbolised her belief. Her faith.

I repeat: it is not good that it’s been mislaid. Sob.

I have never before committed so much of a book to paper. Never before gotten this far without giving up. Never even really considered that I was capable of finishing a book, let alone come this far on the journey to possibly achieving just that. And you know what? I haven’t even finished! There’s more to write and, better still, I actually want to write it! I don’t want to give up, even though Chapter Six nearly killed me, even though my writing’s been poor lately, even though I’m constantly tired from writing till 2am – my optimal writing time, according to my productivity notes.

The ten year old in me – the first Vixx incarnation to commit a story of her own fabrication to a notebook – is jumping up and down, overjoyed, cheering me on. (She’s been leaping about and cheering me on for twenty-two years now – her knees must be shot). And even if this fucking book never touches a printing press, I don’t care – for now, finishing a book, proving that I can do it, and showing that it’s never too late to pursue a dream? That’s enough for me right now – even if it makes me want to puke from the sticky sweet sentimentality of it all.

Getting into the mind of a man isn’t the easiest thing to do.

I think I’m closer to a guy’s way of thinking than a lot of women; I’m probably more man than girl with the constant profanity, copious speeding tickets, fondness of bitter and my games consoles and inability to cook, clean or iron very well. I’m hideously pessimistic and overly sarcastic, and I have a directness about me that’s sometimes rude, although it’s never – well, rarely – intended that way. I have no tolerance of the simpering female – I want to shake her until her eyes roll in their pretty made-up sockets and tell her to grow the fuck up, get some balls. I admire women who stay at home with their families because I sure as fuck couldn’t do it – there’s been a tide of hostility towards women who ‘selfishly’ choose their careers over their kids but I can’t help who I am. If I stayed at home 24/7 to be a Mummy I’d lose my mind, and my son would have a perpetually depressed and occasionally psychopathic mother. On balance, I’m probably doing the right thing for him and, as I’ve said before on numerous occasions, my son will grow up knowing that parents are partners in all aspects of a marriage. He’ll know that if a woman chooses not to work then that’s okay, just as women who chose to keep working are too; in the end, it’s all about respecting our decisions as women and mothers and ensuring that we’re all informed enough and confident enough to make them in the first place. Me, I’ve never, ever not felt confident in this regard. I am who I am and I understand myself well enough to know what happened in my life to get me here. I respect who I am even if I don’t like me sometimes.

Despite this, I know that when it comes to relationships, I’m 100% female. I know because I’ve sat for hours next to a phone waiting for it to ring and checking every fifteen seconds that it’s working. I’ve done the addicted-to-1471 thing. I’ve taken hours and hours to get ready, making my eye make-up especially smoky, my hair sexily tousled and picked my underwear with pain-staking care only to have the guy tell me I look ‘nice’, walk past me and spend the night vomiting into a gutter. I’ve starved myself to drop a jeans size. I’ve binged. I’ve cried in a nightclub when a guy wouldn’t dance with me. I’ve fallen out with friends over men. I’ve looked for affirmation of who I am from men, used sex as a weapon, and my sexuality as a tool. My breasts are singularly responsible for one pay-rise I’ve received, and gotten me out of at least two speeding tickets. None of this makes me proud. In a lot of ways, I can very much still be that simpering female I fucking loathe.

So when it comes to putting across the male perspective in a relationship, it’s not as instinctive as writing as my damaged, commitment-phobic female lead. I’d use M’s guidance but since he’s possibly more of a girl than I am and useless in this regard (we’ve been together fourteen years and even now, if I sit him down to talk about our ‘feelings’ he goes pale and sweaty), he’s possibly not a reliable spokesperson for his gender. I have a male proofreader who offers hints and tips and keeps me on the path and as helpful as that is, I need more to really understand the male perspective. So while not an exact science, I immerse myself in the lads-mag culture; I subscribe to a lads’ magazine and a mens’ magazine, watch Sky Sports and Bravo (after which I often need a shower) and I eavesdrop on as many male-only conversations I as can to really nail the nuances of how they interact. I watch them when they shop. I watch them in bars. I watch them arguing with their other halves, playing with their kids . . . I take every opportunity I get and learn from every one.

I won’t insult your intelligence by professing surprise that men are often crippled by the same insecurities as we are; of course they are, it’s hardly a newsflash. We’re all human, with our own foibles and worries, fat bits and fucked-up bits. But the some of the dating articles . . . Oh. My. God. You need to see them to believe them.

Don’t get me wrong; I know Vogue and Cosmo can echo similar shit (and I don’t read that, either) but . . . please. Check out some of the comments. Is it any wonder some guys can’t get a fucking girlfriend?

Some research just isn’t worth doing. Particularly if I wish to avoid ending up with a male lead I want to drown in a bathtub.

HA!

I’ve been shockingly poor on all pledges, but particularly with the final one. When I’m in work I daydream about having expanses of time to which to devote to writing, and then when I have time, I squander it. I’ve written . . . what, a hundred words maybe? One-fifty? One-fifty looks nothing like five thousand, not even if you squint your eyes a bit. I’ve been shit.

I’ve been thinking about it; I guess that’s something. Mulling over ideas and scenes. But as this blog is full of my protestations that I’m THINKING even if I’m not DOING . . . well, we all know that that’s not really good enough. I’ve firmed up the weaker parts of the structure, and demistified some of the foggier areas of the story where I hadn’t quite decided how to move the plot onwards but . . . I suck ass. :\

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