Every tradesperson loves their tools, cares for them, cherishes them even: a favourite screwdriver, a particular paintbrush, the worn but comfy chair.
Writers have different tools.
Yes, yes, yes I have a great fountain pen with which I love to write but, let’s be honest, writers will carve words out of stone if they absolutely have to.
Pens, pencils, notebooks; we all have our preferred type, but all of these are short-lived, disposable and, however much we may love a particular roller ball, one day it will make its way to the great pencil case in the sky.
These are the tools of my trade, oddly nothing to do with writing at all: drinking the right coffee from the right coffee cup; a slice of toasted sough dough or, on occasion, a bagel. My own space, no disruptions beyond the sounds of traffic on the road and the occasional snatched scrap of conversation from passers-by.
I can write anywhere, but I have to be comfortable in that space. I need to be able to immerse myself in the lives and minds of my characters, to become fully absorbed into my story. It’s not easy. The very process by which I am trying to promote myself in order to enable my writing is the very thing that detracts from that comfortable space. Social media, in all its glory, conspires against me and my grand plan, seeping into my subconscious, tempting me with tangents. It’s all there to disturb the balance.
My tools are my peace, my tranquillity, my imagination. Just give me a chisel and I am ready to go.
Writers have different tools.
Yes, yes, yes I have a great fountain pen with which I love to write but, let’s be honest, writers will carve words out of stone if they absolutely have to.
Pens, pencils, notebooks; we all have our preferred type, but all of these are short-lived, disposable and, however much we may love a particular roller ball, one day it will make its way to the great pencil case in the sky.
These are the tools of my trade, oddly nothing to do with writing at all: drinking the right coffee from the right coffee cup; a slice of toasted sough dough or, on occasion, a bagel. My own space, no disruptions beyond the sounds of traffic on the road and the occasional snatched scrap of conversation from passers-by.
I can write anywhere, but I have to be comfortable in that space. I need to be able to immerse myself in the lives and minds of my characters, to become fully absorbed into my story. It’s not easy. The very process by which I am trying to promote myself in order to enable my writing is the very thing that detracts from that comfortable space. Social media, in all its glory, conspires against me and my grand plan, seeping into my subconscious, tempting me with tangents. It’s all there to disturb the balance.
My tools are my peace, my tranquillity, my imagination. Just give me a chisel and I am ready to go.
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