This post was originally published at Novelicious.com and is now at WritingTipsOasis.com. WritingTipsOasis.com acquired Novelicious.com in June 2022.
I write this, sat at my dining table, the log burner raging and the cows from the Dairy farm I live amongst, padding back to their winter sheds, just by my back garden. And as I read that sentence back, I want to laugh a bit. And pinch myself. Because seven years ago, when we had a house repossessed after bankruptcy, I couldn’t see how we’d ever have a home of our own again; never mind one that we love as much as this… and with a writing space in the heart of it? In the words of 90’s acid jazz band, Brand New Heavies: Dream on Dreamer.
But we do. And I am grateful every day for that fact.
Since we bought our 17th century cottage on the outskirts of St Ives, Cornwall, I’ve created a spot in our home that has proven to be the ideal space to nurture words and characters as I edit my debut and make plans for the second, as part of my contract with Bookouture. Depending on whether I have the burner on or not, I either sit at the head of the table with burner and book shelves to my left, or with the burner behind me, the window into our rambling garden to my right.
My husband works away and the kids are out at school so after the school run, I come home, make tea and breakfast, then come here and sit down to write. For the most part – it’s the very epitome of peace and tranquility, with nowt much other than the occasional tweet from the birds, or moo from a cow ,or cock a doodle doo-ing from the neighbour’s pride and joy.
Sounds glorious doesn’t it?
In truth, it isn’t always like that. When my husband ends up working from home, he eeks his way into the other end of the table and his hour-long, hands-free chats with people about the refit of a Specsavers store in the darkest end of Wales is not entirely complimentary to my focus. It seems I’m unable to dig deep for all the feels whilst he chats opthalmic testing rooms. And don’t get me started on the world’s supply of tech he has. If you ever lose a charging cable, it’s probably on my table. Still, I wouldn’t change it for the world. (Though I am saving up to buy him a shed. With a door, lockable from the outside… too dark?)
Despite this tiny inconvenience – the situation, not my husband – I feel that this house, and specifically this room, has an energy all of its own. The house’s history is full of stories of matriarchs baking, offering fresh tea and cake for the farmers in our porch, as they break from tending the cows.
In just the last 40 years, it has seen survival, new life, marriage, long life, safety, respite and the kind of young, blossoming love in which the protagonists can take on the world. And those emotions are embedded in the fibre of every wall that surrounds me as I write. Maybe one day it should have a book of its very own? Who knows, but for now, it is a home and a space that I trust can help me learn and grow as I embark on this next phase of my writing journey. How very lucky am I!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of milk… *dons red cape and skips down the lane for supplies direct from the cow*
FIND OUT MORE ABOUT HOW TO MEND A BROKEN HEART