And every morning after breakfast, I sat by the lake and wrote. This was my writing view:
For a change of pace, I wrote by the pool or the other side of the lake:
Okay, I also did other vacationy things like bocce ball, swimming pool games, billiards, trivia, long walks in the evening with my husband (everyone say “awwwww”). I didn’t need to cook a meal, make a bed, clean anything, or do laundry for seven days.
And that made me think of famous writers in history: Mary Shelley. Tolkien. Jane Austen. Lewis Carroll. CS Lewis. Beatrix Potter. For the most part, they had servants to cook, clean, wash, shop for groceries. Their Day Jobs (those who had one) left them time to write, write, write. (Pardon me while I check my skintone. It may be taking on a greenish tinge.)
A week of vacation increased by about 10Kthe word count of Book 2 of The Falcone & Driscoll Investigation series. It’s all longhand—the fruit of my fountain pen, sunny days, and lots of time. Thus my twinges of envy over great writers who had money and a staff to take care of the zillion little details of keeping the home together.
Am I alone in this? When other writers go on vacation, does their word count increase exponentially? Fellow Inkspotters, do you get bit by the “time” bug? Do you wake up some mornings thinking, “If I'd been born into a landed gentry family, this book would only take me 2 months to write.”
Of course, all the grunt jobs I’ve worked in my life have given me great fodder for my books. Did someone call me a cockeyed optimist?