Yesterday became a day of reading as the little one battled through a cold and my role as Mammy became role of nurse. But today, we are back to normality, building leaning towers of lego and drawing long-snouted dragons over breakfast.
I’m writing this post at the kitchen table with ‘Mr. Tumble’ on in the background and the occasional fat yellow brick flying onto my keyboard. I’ve never needed total silence to work- a symptom of growing up one of six. Homework for me was performed on the lap, perched in front of snowy TV stations, books balanced on the arms of the sofa. At Uni, I wasn’t much better; studying the path of nerve innervation and spinal tracts in the noise of the common room. Don’t let it be said that I don’t seek out and crave silence and isolation to work but I know I can and will write anywhere. In truth, I think all writers have this ability, they may not be writing but when immersed in their story, their mind has one face always looking towards their novel, one ear always trained on their characters’ voices, one eye seeking inspiration for their plot. So in the bold, as yet straight road of January, here I am, having just written the opening paragraphs to a new novel, madness around me but still…writing.