It’s Saturday morning, my husband has taken the kids into town and I’m writing an article on how I find time to write books. I could just end it here, it would be nice and arch, a bit meta. But The Irish Times asked for up to 1,000 words and I’d hate to disappoint them.
As a parent of two with a full-time job, I’ve been asked how I find time to write pretty consistently since I published my first book in three years ago. And I’m happy to answer that question as long as – interviewers, take note! – male authors with children are asked as well. Until they are, nothing will change, for anyone. But I digress; this is my story. So how do I find the time? I siphon it, drop by drop.
I don’t have to write novels. Last time I checked the world was in no danger of running out of them. But I’ve wanted to write books for as long as I could read them and if you love the idea of something that much then I think you owe it to yourself to at least give it a shot. I have a busy (lovely) job and two lovely (busy) children, so I write in the spaces between them. The early baby years were mad, of course but now that the pram in the hall – that bloody pram – has been replaced by two big boy bikes the writing time is expanding to fill the space it left behind.
Most of the time, mind you, I'd rather be doing something else. It would be much more pleasant to be sitting here reading a book or, let's face it, checking Twitter and what I really should be doing is sorting through the large pile of dry laundry that's waving at me from across the kitchen. But if I want to write books then this is what I must do, use every spare second available to me. Create spaces, and fill them with words.
Support is vital too, and having the confidence to use it. It’s not easy, telling someone “I need time to write”, particularly if you don’t have a contract, words on a page to prove that what you are doing is Serious and Worthwhile. But you have to ask for time, and be appreciative when you get it but not apologetic. Own the decision. If you decide you want to run a marathon then it’s quite likely friends and family will pile in and help you achieve your goal. This is another marathon, and while you mightn’t get a medal, the sense of achievement at the end is, I suspect, quite similar.
I never thought it would be like this, of course. When I first dreamed about writing novels – some kids sang into a hairbrush, I wrote imaginary acknowledgement pages – I always visualised a big desk, a view of the sea, a figure tip-toeing around outside checking if I needed more tea. I didn’t think I’d write in waiting rooms and at the side of swimming pools, in libraries and coffee shops. But I manage. I’ve written in soft play centres and in the car outside birthday parties and most often, in this kitchen late at night when everyone else is asleep. Coffee helps, as does carrying around the lightest laptop imaginable. I can’t wait for the right time, I have to be able to write at any time.
Don’t get me wrong, I still dream of a writers’ retreat. I have read so much about one particular place that I can practically see the view from my imaginary window, feel the breeze on the lake, taste the scones. But if I had waited until I had time to go there, then I wouldn’t have written a word. Again, this is my story. If you happen to have the sea view and the breeze and the scones and it works for you then great, enjoy it and make use of every second. But I don’t, and I can either pine after it, or work with what I have.
As for writing while rearing kids – well, here’s a funny thing. When I was in my 20s, with almost unlimited time and no dependents, I wrote a novel that wasn’t very good. One kind agent told me my technique was fine but that I needed the Big Idea, a plot that would really sing. While pregnant, I started using internet parenting forums and they gave me the story that became my first novel. Not fantastic timing, as small babies aren’t known for their sympathy and patience. But there it was, a decent plot and I either had to write it or abandon it. It’s also the case that having children has made me more focused, in some ways more productive. Motivated to fill each space as it emerges, as I know it might be a while before I find another one. Again, this is my story, and I wouldn’t advise a childless author to take my two livewires for a fortnight to see if they might spur them on! But I’ve never known it any other way.
I’m not going to pretend it has been easy. I don’t go out much at night and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never have time to watch, let alone read Game of Thrones. But what I have done is write three novels. I’m Irish and female and my imposter syndrome is deeply embedded, so even writing that down sounds boastful. But they are on the bookshelf, so it must be true. Of course I worry that those books would have been better if I’d had the scones and the lake view but I don’t have Gwyneth’s sliding doors. These are the books I wrote and they exist and I love them for it.
And now the front door rattles, and the family is home. Two hours, rather than five minutes' peace. 1,000 words. That'll do.
One Bad Turn by Sinéad Crowley is published by Quercus, £12.99, and is launched on June 7th, at 7pm, in Dubray Books, Grafton Street, Dublin
