The Right Time To Write

I remember very clearly, where I was, when I decided I would finally write my book. I had waited for and imagined that inspired lightbulb moment for a long time. It’ll be when my son is a little older and starts nursery, I’d surmise, or when I finally have a desk I can sit at, undisturbed, because how can a writer write without chunks of time to themselves and a good desk?

But instead, the lightbulb moment came at the most imperfect, chaotic and hardest time of my life. I had new born twins, one of which cried all day due to reflux, a four-year-old about to start school for the first time, a house that was drowning in piles of washing, and although I didn’t realise it at the time, I was also suffering with post-natal depression. In what should have been one of the most joyful times of my life, I was the saddest I had ever been.

The moment the lightbulb went off, I was sitting in an arm chair, where I had been for two hours, with a sickly new born baby on my chest – the only place he would settle and not scream. I was exhausted, unshowered, sad, and bored, sitting scrolling mindlessly on my phone, tweeting, texting friends, Googling, and making lists on the notes app on my phone. I missed hot cups of coffee. I missed long walks.

But what I missed more than anything, was writing. If only all these thousands of words I was typing into Google and Whatsapp and Twitter to keep me company during this lonely, dizzying time where days dragged but at the same time, melted into one another so flawlessly that I had no idea when it was that I last ate, slept, saw outside, were amounting to words in the book I longed to write, I thought. Then: the lightbulb. I had no desk. I had no time. But I had this phone, with its notes app. I had these hours, pinned to the arm chair, where I was typing more than I had ever typed, just to distract myself. Why couldn’t those words, be something?

So, I let it go, that vision of sitting at a desk, undisturbed, with perfect chunks of time ahead of me. And I decided to just write. Words were words, however, wherever they were written. Eventually, they would make up a book.

I wrote as much I could. I had a vague plan for my book which I quickly sketched out in bullet points on an email to myself, and every day, I would consult the email to see which bit I needed to write next, and wherever and however I could, I would write. Of course, things were hard. Things were extremely, extremely hard sometimes, and I was sad and struggling.

Some days felt utterly impossible to endure. But writing helped me; eased me. It was a sort of therapy. It was something for me, among the chaos. It was an escape from my mind, which was so full of black clouds. Black clouds that would disperse as I lost myself in my story. Mostly, writing was a fragment of my identity, when I had felt I had lost myself entirely.

I wrote on my phone, other times, in notebooks, and others, as the twins got older and more settled, at my laptop. And I wrote anywhere. With a sleeping baby on my chest, at night when I couldn’t get back to sleep after night feeds, on a bench in the drizzle, after walking for miles with the push chair to get my babies to sleep. Looking back, I view those moments of writing my book like those street drawings in Mary Poppins. A place to jump into, when things got tough; when things felt sad and unbearable and difficult. I’d open my laptop, or the notes app, and there I’d be. With Lizzie and Priscilla, gossiping at lunch. With Roman, listening as he speculated about the meaning of life, alternate universes and love.

It was a lifeline.

After eight months, I had a very rough first draft. And after another ten, I had a literary agent. After another three, a book deal. Now, as I write this, Somewhere Close To Happy, the book I wrote when happiness, for me, felt so impossibly out of reach, is going to be released in four days. A book I would have never written if I’d carried on waiting for the perfect time. Because I’m still waiting.

The perfect time, for anything, I have learned doesn’t exist. And if that’s where you are – waiting – don’t. Put one word in front of the other. Because the worst possible time, might just be the best time to start.

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SOMEWHERE CLOSE TO HAPPY

‘A wonderfully written, funny and moving debut with an intriguing mystery at its heart… Unforgettable.’ – Sunday Times bestselling author, Claire Douglas

‘Honest and brave, Somewhere Close to Happy is a thought-provoking, beautifully observed study of love and real life, social issues and mental health’ – Jill Mansell
‘Lia is one of those rare writers who manage to break your heart and mend it all at once. Somewhere Close to Happy is a gem of a book – funny, touching and true’ – Stacey Halls, bestselling author of THE FAMILIARS
Lizzie James is happy.

She has a steady office job (with a steady stream of snacks), has had the same best friend since school, and she sees her family every Thursday night for take-away and trashy TV. Lizzie likes her uncomplicated life.

Then a letter arrives one day from her first love, Roman. A letter dated the day he disappeared, 12 years before. As Lizzie uncovers the secrets of the letter, she discovers what really happened the year her life fell apart – and all avenues lead back to Roman.

Lizzie James thought she was happy, or somewhere close to happy, anyway.
Now she’s not so sure.

‘A funny and heart-warming story of first loves and the importance of friendship, but also a moving and wise exploration of mental health, childhood, self-discovery and – ultimately – the importance of being brave.’ – Sunday Times bestselling author, Gillian McAllister

Perfect for fans of Giovanna Fletcher, Mhairi McFarlane and Cecelia Ahern. This is a novel you won’t soon forget.

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Category: Contemporary Women Writers, How To and Tips