I'd love to write a novel, but I don't have the time.

Me too, sweetheart. Me too.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

When do you write?

Whenever I am asked this question (and it comes up a lot at events) I want to laugh hysterically. Or perhaps let my head rest in my hands for a while. Maybe a decade or two. Because here’s the thing: I am a professional writer, with many bestsellers to my name. I have been doing this job for more than 25 years. By anyone’s standards I make a very good living. I have help. And yet my ‘protected’ writing time on any given day is likely to be a few scrappy hours – and there are many days where I fight to get any writing done at all.

What? I hear you say. But you say you’re highly motivated! it’s your job! It is. I’m also a mother, partner, animal-wrangler, CEO and friend and I’m (mostly) human.

Here is a list of things, off the top of my head, that have recently got in the way of me writing in “normal” working hours.

Adult children: doctor’s appointments (no, that is not heat rash), university trips, random phone calls to discuss relationship issues, emergency cooking lessons, help with broken down car, help with yelling at RAC over said broken down car.

Animals: walks (so many walks), veterinary trips, cuddles because new cat has arrived and Dog 2 is having an existential crisis, cat food purchase as new cat doesn’t like the brand bought in bulk that the cat rescue place said he loved, giving of anti-arthritis injection to Dog 1, cleaning of rug after accident, purchase of Dr Beckmann carpet cleaner in anticipation of next accident.

Domestic mishaps: cracked induction hob (apparently nobody responsible), failure of car tracker that needs fixing so as not to invalidate insurance, discovery of damp that needs re-doing even though damp proofing company says is not damp, just looks and feels like it, searching of local area for someone who can fix a broken roman blind for less than the price of a new blind, measurement of said window for new blind, paralysis re purchase of new blind as the planet obviously doesn’t need me buying more stuff, hour spent on YouTube trying to work out how to string a blind.

In-person meetings: with producer re; two projects, with film agent in LA (zoom), with agents in UK to discuss projects with said producers, coffee with fellow writer who may want to share office, estate agent re; said office, friend’s book launch, meeting with long-suffering beloved assistant who spends her life chasing me down to make me do admin (sorry Jackie).

Meetings hanging over me but still unscheduled: accountant, lawyer re complicated financial thing, production meetings for two scripts that I haven’t yet written, and will probably end up writing during my holiday.

Self-care: annual health MOT, emergency de-fuzzing for below-waist element of health MOT (c’mon, I’m not a savage), Pilates class for writer’s back, remedial physio for hips because nobody apparently ever told me how to sit, stand or walk properly, haircut for book event, purchase of new trainers because the old ones are apparently wrecking my hips, time spent staring at new trainers in front of mirror and wondering if I can get away with wearing the old trainers as these make me look like a hobbit.

Other family stuff: lawyer’s meeting in city with Dad, half hour spent trying to save pigeon from a seagull outside lawyer’s office (don’t ask), visit to sister to meet new baby, help with partner’s house-purchase, visit to partner’s child’s school for his birthday, because he really, really wanted to be driven home in my Mini. Long telephone conversation with stepdad who lives an hour and a half away trying to organize next visit. Time spent staring at wall feeling guilty that I don’t visit more.

Admin: Hour online with British Gas chatbot who cannot apparently accept my meter readings online because I’m “using too much energy”, bank stuff, insurance stuff, house alarm stuff, car tax stuff, supermarket online shop, return of misguided denim shorts purchase, chasing of payments, paying of bills, sinking of head into hands while muttering: just do your fricking job, that’s all I’m asking.

Books: Reading of three books that I wanted to blurb for but have probably missed the deadline because I don’t have time to read in the day and then tend to fall asleep in the evening. Feeling guilty about said books.

Writing pieces I may or may not post on Substack.

That’s without the demands of filming or touring, in which case all writing goes out of the window for weeks or months because you’re now in non-stop 16-hour-day territory and barely managing to feed yourself and locate clean pants.

If I get an eight hour stretch at my desk, uninterrupted, I get giddy. If I had a week of those I could probably write a whole novel. But I don’t know any writer whose life isn’t a massive, fragmented juggling act. Maybe if you’re a man? I do find myself muttering: “I need a wife” at regular intervals. Or perhaps just a smaller pram in the hall.

Before I had children, I wrote three (unpublished) books while holding down a job. I did a 12 -hour news shift at The Independent and then came home and wrote. Maybe the Nescafe was stronger then. When my children were young, I would set the alarm for 5am and write in bed before they woke. This had two advantages: one, that I could guarantee myself 6000 words a week, and secondly, at 5am my brain had not yet had the time to fill up with the detritus of the day, as listed above, and somehow the words were still connected by gossamer strings to my dream-filled imagination. Words just flowed, almost subconsciously, onto the page. It worked, for a good few years.

But I’m older now, and I’m tired, and dammit, these days if I get up at 5am I look like Deputy Dawg. So even though my remaining kids at home are pretty low maintenance, I seem to scrabble through my working day in the same way that I always have. I’ve given up thinking it’s ever going to be different.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: wannabe writers ask me all the time how I schedule my day, sometimes adding sadly: “I’d love to write, but I just don’t have the time”. Honey, none of us has the time. Maybe if you are male, and Victorian, and have a wife and servants and lock yourself in the study for several months at a go, being served beef broth and occasional glasses of whisky, then sure. But for most of us writing is going to be a matter of determinedly squeezing it in somewhere between the online food shop and the trip to the podiatrist, at least if you want to have something of a life too. And what happens when you don’t have a life too is my cautionary tale for another time.

It can be done. Some writers I know are religious about protecting their morning writing time, removing themselves to cafes or offices until it’s done. When I’m in full book (beast) mode, I write a minimum 1000 words a day, shoe-horning it in to whichever part of the day is least chaotic. If I write more – then great, that will buy me some time later in the week. Less, and hell, there you go, at least I’m moving forward. I try not to judge myself too harshly, but I do make sure I get it done.

If it gets bad, or I need some big-picture thinking then I book myself into a hotel for a few days and do nothing but write. That’s a privileged position to be in, sure, but there are other options: friends’ or family’s spare rooms, if you can’t afford it. And yes, I could probably put better boundaries in place, have fewer animals, be stern about the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. But – honestly – I just don’t really want to be that person. I’ve settled into being the slightly frazzled writing person. It works for me.

The main thing is: find what works for you. Preferably every day, or six days a week. Do it instead of the hour you spend scrolling on Instagram or Facebook (don’t pretend you don’t) or watching your soaps. Do it on the train, or in the hour before you get up, bleary eyed and coffee in hand. Either way, keep moving forward. Take the writing, and yourself seriously. If you want it enough, you’ll do it.

If not, are you any good at fixing broken roman blinds?

PS. It’s a different story if you’re neurodiverse. I do a whole section on this in my BBC Maestro course, if you’re interested.