I tell people I am not goal-orientated, and I am not, as far as my writing is concerned – when I am doing it. Oh, I might get to a point where I know what is going to happen in it – how it is going to resolve so far, at least – and I’ll jot down consecutive points before I forget them – but that not going very far ahead in the story – what I write does change as I go along.
And I suppose – that looks like a plot-plan, or as though I am working towards a goal.
I’m talking of way in my past here, when I was trying to write – romance at first because someone said money could be made at it – make my money, I thought, and then I could write my real writing – I’m jotting this down now as it comes – and then a science fiction – when the romance didn’t work – I wrote at least one of 50,000 words, which was the length the publisher was looking for – but unacceptable – it didn’t follow the standard procedure – I couldn’t control the writing in that way –
Enough prevaricating – I can’t tell everything all at once.
I’m sorting out my house, I say.
That is a – goal – of sorts – in the same way that I am sorting out my writing – I am going through it all, more or less in a chronological order of when I wrote it – long-term goals, both of those.
But I haven’t thought of those that way.
Those are two broad things that I am doing in my life.
But so far-reaching the ends of them are way in the distance, beyond where I can see, over the horizon.
I have just finished sorting through a load of tablecloths that I inherited.
I have washed them all but ironed none of them.
I have worked through a criterion of ‘what I like’.
And I won’t put tablecloths on the table as a matter of course. I would like to be that way. It was the way I was brought up. It would be nice . . .
But going through all my writing takes as much of my space as – I mean ‘time’ but didn’t want to say so –
I have kept a few embroidered tablecloths. Because I like them.
The others can go.