I completed the first draft of my new book almost exactly a year ago. For the last twelve months, my writer’s life has been one of editing and proof-reading, punctuated by meetings with marketing people and a belated education in the ways of social media. Apparently, it’s all about the hashtag these days. (My last trade book was published in 2008, a lifetime ago). With all due respect to Oxford University Press, for whom I’ve done a study guide, I have not written a single creative word.
In the past, I have moved onto a new project as soon as I handed a finished manuscript to my publisher. I loved the sense that whatever was happening to that manuscript, I was making something new. (I can’t say it made production problems or harsh reviews any easier to bear, but at least they were not the only thing crossing my desk.) But not this time. I tried pretty much everything from buying a new notebook (don’t laugh, it’s worked in the past…) to a lone cycle ride from St Emilion to Barolo. The notebook remained almost untouched, and all I acquired en route from Bordeaux to Piedmont was an even greater love of really good wine and a new appreciation of anyone who cycles – rather than walk – up the Colle di Sestriere.
The final throw of the dice was to take myself off and do something completely different, during which time I would honestly contemplate the possibility of Never Writing Again. Here’s what I wrote in the midst of that experience:
I have not had a cup of coffee for weeks. Nor have my lips touched wine. Instead, I breakfast on jasmin tea, with fruit and small pastries bought from a stall in the market across the road, and not just any road – the terrifying National Road 1, the embodiment of anarchy. I sip my tea while a couple of fishermen lazily search the ponds below me. The sun rises, and the cool, fresh early morning disappears. Continue reading →