Just writing…

I just wanted to let you know that today, I’m writing.

No excuses. No procrastinations. No coffee. Just me, a Word document and a whole host of ideas.

Perhaps the view helps?

There’s something to be said for taking your time

I am about to begin writing the first chapter of my new book. It is, for me, the second most exciting moment in writing something (the other being finishing). The whole Word document sits before you, white and inviting, just waiting for those little characters to make their way across the page in that magical combination that will get it onto a bookseller’s shelf.

I can still remember my first book-writing sessions. I was at university studying arty subjects, so had more than enough time to work on my book idea, all eagerness and excitement. Of course, I did prepare somewhat before I began. I still own the notebook (the cover shows the Hogwarts school crest from JK Rowling’s Harry Potter books), filled with my excited scribblings that I had to “get out of the way” before I could begin the real work of actually writing the thing.

It’s a funny thing to look at now. Near the beginning, after some brief character descriptions, there are six A4 pages containing 20 chapter breakdowns that were supposed to make up my first book. I soon realised, however, that books tend to develop a life of their own and well-meaning breakdowns often have to be put aside as the action of writing takes you off in directions of which you never dreamed. Consequently, the book I eventually wrote has only a little of what I originally intended. But that’s okay.

The rest of the notebook is filled with maps and history and ideas that I figured out as I went along. There are parts sellotaped in and loose printouts slotted between the pages. As I look at it, I remember just how disorganised I was and how, were I to try and write the whole book again, I would start by doing a little more work before I wrote a single word.

Which is what I have done recently. For the last month I have written nothing on my new book, save for some post-it notes. I have been over my ideas in my head, discarding those I eventually decide won’t work and keeping the ones that I return to again and again. It helps. I have a clear idea of where my book is going and, when I came to sit and write a short overview of the book today, found it quite easy. I know where it’s going. I know what’s going to be included. I know how it will end.

Sure, along the way I’m bound to have new ideas. As I’ve said, that’s how writing works and I’m sure most authors will agree. But I have my notes and my research and I feel there is enough to keep my book close to the lines I have chosen. I think that had I begun to write my book straightaway, it would have floundered somewhere in the middle, as too many ideas squeezed in at the beginning and there was little to surprise the reader towards the end.

I am excited. For the first time in a long time, I have found my enthusiasm again and my fingers are itching to type. It’s going to be a long road, but one for which I feel prepared.

The fun will be had in finding out just where it is going to take me.

So many books, so little time

I arrive home to find two small parcels waiting for me in the hall. One is brown cardboard, thin but sturdy. The other white, puffy and heavier. Eagerly, I drop my bag and coat onto the cream carpet and scoop up the new arrivals. I turn each over in my hands, unsure as to which to open first. Weighing them in my hands, I decide on the plainer brown package and flip it over, revealing a little ‘pull’ tab.

I pull.

A small flap springs open and I force it the rest of the way, light swooping in and showing the thin, green spine of a book. Delighted, I pull it out and study the cover. Roman Britain, it says, with a picture of a busy courtyard, toga-clad Romans talking and a cart pulled by a horse, accompanied by people in coarser, less-refined garments.

Pleased, I nonetheless immediately turn my attentions to the second parcel. Its squishy-ness is captivating and I spend a few moments squeezing the bubbles and hearing the soft swishing of the padding. Once again, I turn the parcel over and tear at the handy strip, this time reaching inside before my eyes can see the contents. I pull out a second book, the musty scent that reaches my nostrils telling me this is an ex-library book. Its title, A History of Greenwich, is displayed in the sky of a Canaletto riverscape, boats milling in front of what is now the Royal Naval College. It is a hardback book. I enjoy turning over its heaviness in my hands and feel the plastic of the jacket under my fingertips.

Two new books for my research!

I avoid turning directly to the bibliography in search of more, although that is what I really want to do. You see, there are always more books to read in aid of research than is healthy for anyone who values being in the fresh air and I feel I should get through the ones I have before more enter my house. I have never been very good at a “one in, one out” policy, with most books I buy becoming good friends, to share a cup of tea with once every year or two.

So the pile of books waiting to be looked at grows and I take my time with each one, reading and re-reading the parts I want to, taking notes when I find something to excite the writer in me.

The following day, I arrive home to find two small parcels waiting for me in the hall…