Writing’s a little like the great Yorkshire weather – if you wait for the sun to come out and stay out, you probably won’t leave the house at all. However, if you take the risk (and maybe a coat), you’ll likely find the day goes well.
Some writers can only work if the conditions are perfect. Closed door, utter silence, freshly brewed tea next to them. I respect that, although I envy any life that can be organised like that. Equally, I’m in awe of any mind that doesn’t throw a contrary hissy-fit every now and then and allows that routine to stand. I find that my routines alter depending on other things going on in my life and where my head’s at. However, I’ve also come to the conclusion that you simply have to write if you want to be a writer.
That’s why the last week has involved me writing in some odd locations. On Monday, I ended up having lunch in the staff area of Pinderfields Hospital canteen (there were no other tables, honest). It’s a lovely building, a really good place to write if you can stop eavesdropping on the tables around you. On Wednesday, my morning was spent scrunched up on the floor of my old house waiting for the clearance guys to come and take away the old furniture not making the move. Not the most comfortable place on the planet, I have to say. Similarly, the end of my writing time on Wednesday was spent in a sports hall with the very real aroma of smelly feet drifting around. That’s the peril of having nieces who want to attend gymnastics, I suppose.
The point is, we can’t always work where we want to. Thanks to the move, I’ve got a beautiful little office with a squirrel frolicking outside to distract me periodically. Along with that, I’ve got a regular writing haunt where I go practically every day for a change of writing scenery. However, if I have to write elsewhere, I’ll give it my best shot. Life doesn’t always go to plan and a writer has to write . . . right?
