A group of published UK-based authors and illustrators of picture books, children's and YA.
When I dreamt of becoming a writer, I imagined myself in a garret looking out over rooftops, clacking away at an old fashioned typewriter. Then, in vintage Disney style, bluebirds would swoop in the window to pick up my finished pages with their beaks and drop them into a satisfyingly tall pile. There would be jazz music playing and a sofa for naps. After I’d worked really hard (say an hour or so) Frank Cottrell Boyce and Neil Gaiman would pop in to compliment me on my new cushions and I would serve tea and tiny cakes on bone china bedecked with pink roses.
Back in real life, here are the places that I actually write.
Every seat in my house comes with a cunningly concealed Power Rangers figure. Sit on one of those and you’ll know about it.
What can I say? I can lock the kids out, which makes this room a place for peace, contemplation and frantic scribbling.
A while back, I heard my youngest child hollering from the bathroom. I assumed he’d fallen down the loo so, once I’d finished my cup of tea, I went to investigate. He shook a long tail of loo paper at me. It was covered in my untidy scrawl, ‘Is this important writing?’ he asked. ‘Or can I wipe my bum on it?’
At least he asked.
THE LOCAL COFFEE SHOP
My brain: I don’t wanna write! I’m tired.
Me: Shhhhh. Let’s just have an over-priced cup of coffee and people-watch in this café.
Brain: Ooh, those cakes look nice.
Me: Maybe we could just jot down a few ideas while we’re here.
Brain: Well . . . okay.
Me: Ha! Sucker! Now I’ve got you with a pen in your hand there’ll be no more caffeine for you until I see 1500 words. 2k if you want a muffin.
This why people with office jobs hate me.