I went on a writing retreat at the end of April – three days alone in a cottage in Devon. No children, no students, no phone signal. What I did have was a novel I wanted to edit.
Or rather, I’d edited it already, over and over, but I wasn’t finished yet.
One more read-through. Then I’d be done.
The cottage was gorgeous, tiny and tucked away and I set to work immediately. I cut down several paragraphs. I found a typo. I changed someone’s name, then changed it back again. Some excellent advice echoed in my head: don’t stop until it’s ready. Don’t stop until you’re sure. I wasn’t sure.
On my third day I went for a walk to think about my novel. I made for the cliffs, climbing as high as I could. The sun shone. The wind blew. It felt good.
I ignored this.
I marvelled at this.
And discussed all possible permutations with these (pics of lambs are obligatory in Devon in April).
By the time I’d walked down here
I’d stopped thinking about my novel and started thinking about something less familiar. A new character sitting down at my kitchen table, making himself at home. Where do they come from, these people? They walk in, unannounced…
So I put on my swimming costume and went for a swim. It was freezing (it was April), exhilarating and a little bit terrifying on an empty stretch of beach beneath the cliffs.
As I walked back to the cottage I knew I was done with my novel. It was time to begin something new.
It felt like this.
It also felt like this.