Quite excited – for a long time, I’ve had a novel idea and title that I’ve not been able to get out of my head, but I needed a framework. I like a device, a theme… and wanted to explore the lines between science and fiction just a bit more. This is going to be one of those self-indulgent posts where I log the moment but don’t explain the details, because embryonic stories are delicate things.
For years and years, I’ve had ideas that I’ve been too busy to write down, and they’ve faded before they’ve made the page. This one was with me when I woke up. Maybe that’s a good measure. Either way, I want to hold onto the hope, and I have a few days off coming up in which I might be able to nail the words.
All I need now is the writing space.
When I was a student, back in the 90s, I hitch-hiked from the Strand, London, to Brussels, to raise money for KCL hospital. I don’t remember the journey – other than being surprised that someone actually picked us up from the Strand, and that we did end up in Brussels. I do remember the city – golden night lights, a delicious kebab, meeting friends in a bar, all-night cafés with good coffee and book-clad walls, and a tired trudge home, heavy-eyed and aching, still in our lab coats and Doc Martens, appetite for adventure quelled and a burning desire for baths, duvets, and deep, soft pillows.
I came away with a dream of writing in one of those beautiful cafés, steaming espresso* (*huge frothy cappucino and a pastry) beside me, my pen resting on my lips as I peered beyond the quiet streets into worlds of my own. That, I thought, would be where my stories would come home.
As a fifty-year-old mum, I’ve changed that mental image. My new dream is to write at an over-stacked oak desk, in a drift of socks and dog hair, while a small cat claws my legs and thoughts of lost PE kits invade my brain. Here, also, there is good coffee.
Wish me luck?
