In this day and age it’s possible to write anywhere, apart from briefly two weeks ago when I had poured an entire cup of coffee onto my laptop keyboard (that enforced a bit of a break). But generally you can take your laptop and go. Find a cafe that doesn’t mind you sitting in the corner tapping away while you drink coffee slowly. Hire a hotdesk if you’re feeling flush and need company. I wrote most of the book, that I daren’t do anything with ,in a selection of libraries, which had the added benefit of being quiet.
Mostly though I sit at my desk in a room in my house which is also home to 5 guitars, a keyboard and a spare bed. My desk is tucked in a niche in the wall, surrounded by clutter, all of which is important to me and supposed to give me inspiration or a kick up the backside.
I have a colour-changing pineapple and a light box for the depths of winter when my mood is grim. There are pictures of my kids doing funny things, and one of me and my mum on a beach. A Pete McKee calendar, that I’m supposed to write deadlines on, adorns my wall (not that I’m very good at setting myself deadlines at the moment). I also have old, classic children’s books around me for comfort and memories. Because there is nothing like Flap Eared Lorna on roller skates to make you feel your idea isn’t so crazy.
There are also far too many notebooks (I think I have a problem). They sit next to my cuddly toys from 1975 to remind me that I was a child once, honest.
I’ve read a lot about how to get yourself ready to write books and have several to refer to (including the recommended Children’s Writers and Artists Yearbook) along with box files containing snippets of ideas and photos I think might turn into something funny one day.
There is also a card telling me that my friend thinks I’m a brilliant writer. I’m not but it kind of helps.
This is where I write, surrounded by bobbins that would mean little or nothing to anyone else. Unless I’m in the library. Or at the kitchen table. Or in a cafe…