Imagining Writing Spaces

 The course is talking about writing rituals and building those up. I find it so bizarre that they're called rituals, for me the word has a strange spiritual tone. Like you're putting together the pieces of a spell or ceremony with the idea of the things you put into place then summon the writing into being. That the story is already out there waiting for you to call it forth into the world from some other dimension. Perhaps that is how it feels for some. I suppose when I was getting into the flow state of writing it does feel  somewhat akin to that. But I don't know if thinking of it as a ritual adds a superstitious element for me rather than thinking of writing as a skill and craft that you practice. I am aware I am saying this as someone with a grand total of zero published works. But, hey, I wrote like a fifth of a first draft. That's got to count for something? No you say? You're probably right.

However for this activity we were to write about what we felt would be out worst possible writing space and one we felt would be well suited for us. At a previous panel I attended from writers of speculative fiction writers, one described another author who had written their first book draft entirely on their phone during their commute. And while I admire their making use of the time I could think only that it would be so hard for me to actually focus and get anything done. In many other things a sense of time pressure can chastise me into getting something done. However, the idea of being able to take myself away for a while with no interruptions and slowly nurture writing into existence feels a lot more like my style. I think I'd still need to make sure I had something around to entertain me for taking breaks. But being able to take a week and booking a cottage alone feels something of a privileged position that I don't think I'm in at the moment.


The train rumbled along briskly and the pitch of the faint scream of metal on metal changed as it thudded into a tunnel. Even saying standing room only would have been generous for the people currently bustling to find space to contort semi-comfortably into somewhere waiting for chance to get off. Dave had the cold pole of the Northern line train pressed into its usual space by his colour bone in a loose embrace as he focused on the screen of his iPhone. typing away to ignore the usual commuters. This had become his daily race; how many words could he add to the document before having to begin the walk home from the station to make dinner?

Leaning back against the breakfast bar she looked out of the window of the isolated cottage she'd rented for the next week. The home of lumpy stone blocks was near the lone indication of humanity in this Welsh valley. The smell of the percolating coffee filled her nose while she noticed how low the clouds were today. Though the sheep didn't seem to mind. Out of habit she picked up her phone knowing as soon as she did there would be nothing to see due to the lack of signal here. Settling down at the bureau she prepared to begin writing.

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