Diary run-down, or 'How hard it is to write'

I need to break the back of this sodding novel. It’s on my mind all the time and I know I have it in me to finish, and I actually think it might be good. I have ideas coming at me unexpectedly like lovely little tennis balls to the face, but I have to work for a living, I have a boyfriend I like to see occasionally, I need to get to the gym at least a couple of times a week to help me sleep properly (and to keep said boyfriend), I live alone and the flat doesn’t clean itself missy, nor do the cupboards refresh themselves in the night. And on it goes …

The frustration of not being able to write when I want is beginning to send me doolally in fact. Right before I went on holiday I had whatever the opposite of writer’s block is. I even kept my first drafts virtually unchanged and that never happens. Of course the holiday disturbed my momentum (I’m so ungrateful) but I vowed to pick up the mantle on my return. But consider this for a week of how not to get any writing done: Saturday: return to UK from holiday – Sunday: unpack, open post, laundry, food shop, restore semblance of order to Mancunian life – Monday: spend time with important life partner – Tuesday: work, Pam Ann at The Lowry – Wednesday: work, dinner at Cornerhouse, Sex and the City opening night – Thursday: gym, anniversary meal – Friday: gym, housework, computer fatigue, exhaustion ­– Saturday: gym, birthday gift shopping, birthday party, meal and drinks for two very dear friends – Sunday: trembling hangover, the fear, the blues, uncreative slump, watch Family Guy and Footballer’s Wives DVDs – Monday: work, gym, see boyfriend (can’t write in his presence, he sits on the paper) – Tuesday: dinner with beloved Auntie Dee and Uncle John to show holiday pics and because I will miss Dee’s birthday at the weekend due to wedding (so no writing then either …) Do you see? One has a room of one’s own; when will one have time of one’s own to use it?