A Room Of One's Own

Virginia Woolf once said that every woman should have a room of one's own to write fiction. I've shared a bedroom with my sister whilst growing up and then with my husband Paul and although I've shared quite happily, I'm very excited about having a room of my own. Paul is building me a writing room in the garden and I'm going to blog about its construction and its positioning onto an over-grown and neglected area at the front of the house. I hope to keep some greenery around the room to soften the edges, although it looks pretty bare at the moment thanks to our freezing Easter weather.



Writing spaces are so individual and it's fascinating to read about where writers feel most comfortable. Every month I buy Writing Magazine and Writers' Forum and love to read about writers' work spaces. Martin Baum has his Bournemouth beach hut, Terry Pratchett has an office with four computer screens in front of him and JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter in a cafe down the road from the university where she worked.

A writing space is definitely a luxury and not essential, after all, writers write; it doesn't matter if we're on a bus, in bed, tucked at one corner of the kitchen table or sitting on a park bench. If the ideas are flowing and a story demands to be written, then we reach for a notebook and we're off. But having said that, it would be wonderful to have my own space? A place to concentrate and escape into the make-believe lives and characters I write about. I could hang up my pin board full of facts and character traits, without cluttering up the kitchen. I could have a book-case to store the myriad of writing text books and vast collection of notebooks I've bought but don't want to deface any of them with a single word! I could also find a home for all these 'writerly' niks-naks I've accumulated and want to find a home for.





Here are the first photographs of my writing room under construction. The shell is up, the roof timbers have begun to be lifted in to place and the first-fix electrics have been put in. Thankfully it's fully insulated so I can write and read in it all year round. I thinks it's the best present ever!







Please keep popping back to check on progress as I up-date my blog.

Take A Step Back

Sometimes you can be too close to a problem; so much so, that you can't make sense of what's before you. Stand too close to the television and all you see is a myriad of non-sensical dots. Take a few step back and you have a clearer focus on the image.

I felt like this recently whilst trying to get to grips with a plot in my second novel, Sugar And Spite. My protagonist was grieving over the sudden death of her husband, and I needed something to trigger the beginning of a slow recovery. (After all, in future chapters she had to find a way to make a living, cope with mysterious anonymous messages which were being sent to her, un-earth secrets, travel to France, discover that her husband wasn't the man she thought he was and of course, a new man would enter her life). I needed my heroine to be strong again and ready to take on an adventure or two.


The trigger to her recovery had to be believable and preferably have a link to her late-husband, so I continued to write, leaving a gap to fill in when I'd eventually had a light-bulb moment; and hoping that my brain hadn't had a permanent power cut. But of course, with my nose pressed up against the problem, I was too close to see straight.

Some weeks later, having a cup of tea in my writing room (and maybe a cheeky biscuit or two), I wondered what would emotionally give me strength and comfort at a time when I might need it. Of course family and friends' support goes without saying, but I needed something which would add a new dimension to my novel.

The light-bulb moment happened - in the form of a squeak!

No, not a mouse, a dog! Turning round, my two faithful spaniels were curled up on the settee. They always keep me company whilst I'm writing and I'm sure they'd much rather sleep on my writing room sofa than in the kitchen overnight!

First I must explain the squeak. Harlyn (the red dog in the photograph) was dreaming - probably of rabbits or squirrels. Her paws were twitching as she ran through treacle in her dream, never quite catching the elusive creature in question. She tends to emit little squeaks as she twitches in her sleep! No doubt in her dreams it's a decisive, no-nonsense bark.

Harlyn and Brook are always full of loyal devotion despite how I'm feeling. If I'm feeling a bit low, a cold wet nose will nuzzle closely or I'll be brought a well-chewed dog toy as a gift. There's nothing better than hugging a soft warm body with fur which smells like sawdust, fresh air and a faint musty smell like opening your grandmother's jewellery box! If I'm frustrated, they'll lift my mood with a dying-fly impersonation, and if I'm laughing, they'll hunker down with bottoms in the air ready to play.

Quite simply - I love them!

A dog is just what my heroine Erin, needed. A little creature to look after and get her out the house. I linked her late-husband into the story by writing that he'd chosen Jet - a totally black Springer puppy - before he'd died. Jet was to have been a surprise for Erin. Of course it had taken weeks before the puppy had been weaned and delivered to the doorstep, which explained the timing.

I'd found my link in the form of a little black ball of fluff!