Creating my writing space

I started writing my first draft in February and actually finished it a few weeks ago. A range of circumstances meant that I had more time to write, however I also felt no barrier to my previous excuse of “not feeling inspired,” or “not having the right space to feel comfortable writing.” I made myself write, whether I felt like it or not, even when I felt as though my ideas were not very good at all. If I felt like my first few pages were really jumbled and nonsensical, I would still persevere, keep on writing, thinking that I will just worry about the editing part later. I tried not to worry about the space I was writing in. I would write in my notebook no matter where I was (often in the sitting room) and once I got started, it didn’t seem to matter too much if the space didn’t have the right “atmosphere” or “vibe” or whatever to inspire me.

For some reason, this all changed when it came to typing up my draft. I have been putting it off for weeks, falling back on those same excuses from before. In my mind, I needed to be typing up my ideas in exactly the right space- preferably a coffee shop or a picnic table in a country park opposite a lake, or some other sort of cliched and pretentious place. And I was all set to do that, told myself that I would as soon as everything slowed down again, as soon as work wasn’t so crazy.

All of those ideals have vanished with the recent closures and the message we were given last night to stay at home, and ultimately ‘where to write’ has been taken entirely out of my hands. Although everything is really uncertain and scary across the world at the moment, if I try and think on the positive side, things have really slowed down and now is the time (as I am sure many of us have realised) to “write that book I have always wanted to write.” No excuses. So, I may as well make the most out of a strange and horrible situation, ignore the nagging doubts and type up this first draft. And the writing space issue- well, I will just have to fix that myself with what I can.

I spent last night tidying up our study. It has recently been a dumping ground for everything from the spare bedroom. We have been decorating the spare room and the study is really cluttered and claustrophobic, with a jumbled assortment of stuff. I sorted through everything, set up my desk with some plants and a candle, and tried to make it as comfortable and “inspiring” as I possibly could. This is going to be my little space for a while. Let’s see what I am able to create here…

Covid-19 at Hogwarts

I decided in the current climate that a Harry Potter Marathon would be ideal this weekend, and I started wondering what Hogwarts would do in this pandemic.
Gryffindors would be the ones on the front line- the key workers, working hard to do what they can for everyone else.
Slytherin would be the ones panic buying and hoarding all the toilet roll or whatever witches and wizards use to wipe their bums.
Ravenclaw would be researching everything they possibly could about Covid-19, social distancing and certainly washing their hands.
Hufflepuff would be those caring for the community. Helping out neighbours and making sure the old lady who lives next door can get her shopping.

Actually, thinking about it, they can do magic- 5 minutes with Madam Pomfrey and the virus would magicked away!

Sketching and developing characters

Being quite a visual person, it has always helped me to sketch out my characters and settings before or alongside describing them in my writing. I wouldn’t by any means say I am fantastic at drawing- I have an Art GCSE, but I scrawl and I rush- I have never had the patience to sit and create something in any intricate detail. I prefer to doodle, and my doodling preferences (even during that Art GCSE) have always been just a little creepy and Tim Burton- like. I remember being in my Art class and creating a giant painting of Jack Skellington and then using that to inspire an image depicting “Mary Had A Little Lamb,” with a gothic twist. I have always liked the style of more gothic cartoons and knew that the atmosphere I created when I sketched these images was the same atmosphere I wanted to bring into the YA novel I am currently writing.

So, here’s a sketched introduction to some of my wonderfully ominous female characters so far. Again, scrawled, rushed and not perfect- but let me know what you think 😊

Using travel for writing inspiration...

 I love exploring new places and I have always felt that travel is a great source of inspiration for creativity and writing. When I used to daydream about being an author, I’d have all these stereotypical ideals of writing in the Tuscany sunshine or writing whilst picnicking next to an expansive lake with towering mountains either side, and although I have never actually done this, I have always associated travel with escape and freedom- just like writing. When I immerse myself in a new environment, I find that I am able to actually breathe and feel an overwhelming sense of just being alive- I know that probably sounds cliched or melodramatic, but I think there are so many breath-taking sights in this world and nothing can quite match just being there and actually feeling a great sense of appreciation of what we have. A moment away from all the madness. 

I want to use travel as a source of inspiration for my writing. I read somewhere recently that writers tend to write more effectively about things they have experienced and seen, and although my current writing is more in the realm of magical realism, I really feel that I can use these experiences to shape my ideas. I’ve recently travelled to Scotland and although I live in a town that has one of the highest Scottish populations outside of Scotland, I had never been before and was pleasantly surprised with what I found. That is something I truly love about living in the UK, for a relatively small island it has so much variety in terms of natural beauty and terrain. I was not quite expecting the mountains. I’d seen mountains before, of course- I’ve been to both the Peak and Lake District and have also climbed Snowdon, but driving through Glencoe, for example, and seeing that beautiful, rugged and wild terrain was (another cliché warning) absolutely breath-taking. Whilst we were in the Scottish countryside, the weather was awful with rain almost every day, but I liked the moody ambience of it. I found it inspiring for building ideas around creating mood and atmosphere. I felt an urge to write about journeys, adventure, challenges and escape in harsh, unforgiving environments. 

We also stayed in Edinburgh for four days on our trip, and although the city didn’t have the same isolated and powerful essence, it projected all of its beauty in quite a different way and the adventure was certainly still there. We explored the city, observing its life and landscapes, and finding all of its little oddities and mysteries, like the odd weeping angel-esque statue we found in one of the rivers (pictured to the right) and the hidden rooms within the bridges and the forgotten homes underground- a place full of fascinating history with so many stories to uncover.

Although having to return to reality is always tough, I now have a bank of ideas, inspiration and moments that I can’t wait to start forming into stories as soon as I can get hold of my notebook. And, even better, I get to relive all these experiences and moments again when I am writing them down

Choosing the perfect notebook.

I have always been obsessed with stationary. I am sure it comes as part of the job criteria for teaching- why else does Paperchase offer discount for teachers in September? And there is nothing better than finding that perfect notebook to write in. I can see it now: an entrancing cover (usually textured),  thick pages, crisp and white, just waiting to be filled. I have been subconsciously collecting notebooks for years with the promise of "I will write in you soon", long after I stopped using any. I have a whole row of "special ones"- one that looks exactly like River Song's diary from Doctor Who, one that looks just like the spell book from Hocus Pocus (creepy eye and everything)- just to name a few- their pages currently empty but waiting patiently all in line. I must admit, I have enjoyed collecting these beautiful, full of promise notebooks to add to my collection, but I often felt guilty every time I thought about them sitting there, silent and unopened (some still in their packaging).
Then, the time had finally come, to write again and select which winning notebook would have the honour of going on my journey with me. So, I suppose this blog post is a bit of an "ode to my notebook," really. Large, purple notebook with the silver engravings and silver edges- I choose you *throws imaginary pokeball* not just because of your excessive size which drew me to you to in the first place (the mammoth challenge of getting back into writing clearly needs a mammoth notebook), but because you have everything I need in a notebook and a handy little silver bookmark to add that finishing touch. Now, I am halfway through my chosen notebook and there is such satisfaction in placing my bookmark part way through, feeling all the dented, used and scribbled on pages on one side and all the pages anticipating  the adventures ahead. Finally, I am no longer just an obsessive stationary hoarder, I'm actually starting to feel a little bit like a writer, and I am glad I have the perfect notebook to help me along the way :)

Why I have decided to write again...

Creating stories was something I always enjoyed. With a lot of other things in life, I have always felt like I am mainly doing it as a means to an end, to get something in return or because there was some kind of expectation placed on it, but I never felt that way with writing. I was creating stories from as early as I can possibly remember- or not even remember in my mum's opinion- apparently she used to sit me up on the kitchen counter in my baby carrier and I used to babble away as she peeled potatoes for dinner. I always had an imagination. I think all 90s kids feel this way, but it definitely was an era for using that brain for made up stories and making your own fun. I remember my first day in nursery, building sandcastles we envisioned would reach up to the sky, shutting ourselves in a telephone box (random?) they had in the play area and whispering ghost stories. Everything was an adventure despite not even leaving the back garden- it was a jungle, the racecourse from Wacky Races, a battlefield. It wasn't long until I was taught that beautiful magic of reading and writing and could start to put my ideas down on the page.

My dad was a caretaker in a primary school and my brother and I used to go and play there during the school holidays when my dad was busy fixing things up for the next school term. I used to sneakily steal exercise books (terrible, I know) and write little tales of witches and wizards, puppies who lived in the clouds and abandoned teddy bears looking for a home- always accompanied with little drawings. I would then force my family to read them. Passing the pages and running away before I could see their reactions to any of it. I didn't share my writing outside of the safe "family space." It wasn't something I was doing for others, really. It was purely for me. Something I enjoyed and I could indulge in. An escape into the imaginary worlds- the love of seeing my ideas develop and mould into something on the page. 

I kept a diary from the age of 9 until I left for university. I literally used to write in it every night. When I moved into my first house with my then boyfriend, now husband, my mum delivered boxes of them. They were cringe-worthy, of course. But they reminded me that I used to love expressing myself and dramatising situations. They were a way of communicating without barriers; exploring how I truly felt about things. 

Growing up, if I was asked what I wanted to be when I was older, it would be a list of jobs that had been drilled into me as being realistic, achievable but still ambitious. Vet, psychologist, optician, to name a few choices over the years. But if I was asked what I really wanted to be. If nothing could stop me, it was always my dream to be a writer. Yet, to me, this was like saying that I wanted to be an actor, or a singer, or a dancer. Lovely for a hobby, a pastime, an interest to spend time on every now and then- but not a career. And if you tried to do it for a career, then you were foolish and would ultimately end up penniless. So I stuck with the safer options, and sadly, the writing stopped at university. I am not sure if it was being out of my comfort zone, the lectures, seminars, deadlines, holding multiple jobs down to afford to actually live or just the amount of effort it takes at that age/ stage in life to actually find yourself, but it all stopped. The writing now wasn't for me- it was for university. Yes, I was still exploring things I loved- literature- but it was analytical, formulaic- things I studied, not things that flowed naturally from my imagination. I also found out I had dyslexia at university. At the time, it was devastating- especially when I was doing an English literature degree. It knocked my confidence and may have contributed to the lack of writing for myself. However, I have learnt that it actually doesn't really matter at all- yes, I make silly mistakes under pressure and find it difficult to follow instructions and proofread my work- but I wasn't going to let it hold me back in any way. I had come that far without it being a barrier at all.  I see so many students now with severe dyslexia to milder forms like my own and they are capable of more than incredible things in their reading and writing. I wish I believed in myself more back then, and I like to think I make sure that no student in my classroom feels that they are capable of anything less than the others just because they have to work a bit harder for it.

After university came my teacher training degree and then teaching itself which (as I am sure any teacher would know) involves so much doing for others, you never really have time for yourself. If I read (most of the time) it was for the books I was going to be teaching, GCSE texts, books I could recommend to students to engage them with reading. If I wrote- well, that would be model answers, departmental improvement plans (when I became head of department) and marking- so, so much marking. 

Even in the holidays, I would be so exhausted or so excited to just get away, that "time to write" seemed impossible. I would still admit to anyone who asked me that my true dream (the if- I- could- be- anything dream) was to be writer which would be followed by comments like "You should do it." "Well, you never know if you never start," and I would reply with excuses like, "I never have the time. I have far too much to do today," or "I'm tired, I would rather watch Netflix," or "the setting isn't quite right, I need to make a space to do it first. I will start once the house is decorated." (5 years on and we still haven't finished decorating...). It wasn't even motivation that was the issue. I think I was actually scared. I hadn't picked up 'the pen' in such a long time, I felt as though I had lost all of my imagination. I was worried I wouldn't be able to do it at all. I felt this the strongest when I taught my students creative writing at work and saw the wonderfully imaginative  ideas that they produced alongside the beauty and maturity of some of their writing. I wondered whether it was just a skill I really had when I was their age, and that my neglect of it had caused it to ultimately wither away. 

So, to get to the point- the reason why I have decided to write again. Recently, I have been given a bit of time to refocus myself, reconnect with who I am and distract myself from, you know, millennial pressures and all that. When I tried to think of something that made me feel truly happy, content, offered me some freedom and a bit of escape, I knew exactly what I needed to do. I needed to pick up that pen again (not a red one this time) and I needed to write for me. I just needed to take the plunge and write. Even if it is a load of rubbish, even if my imagination was lacking with age- if it had disappeared, I was determined to find it again. 

So I wrote and wrote. I have been writing non-stop for over a week and a half. I have fountain pen stains on my hand; I identified massively with Jo March when I went to see 'Little Women' in the cinema with my mum; I wake up in the middle of the night with random story ideas; I will suddenly think of something whilst watching a film with my husband and will have to scribble it down right then and there. I have lost hours writing and writing- and I love it. I love that I have rekindled that pure childhood love of writing again...and I just thought I would share exactly how that feels :)