March 26th by Virginia Ironside:

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Over the last forty odd years I've written about fifteen books, and after the publication of each one, the most difficult question to answer is: "And how long did it take you to write?"

If you say: "Oh, I just knocked it off here and there over a few weeks" it somehow sounds rude, as if the book is so worthless as be barely worth reading - ergo, they are idiots for bothering to waste time wading through it. But if you say: "Oh, it took me six years", that too sounds artificial, particularly if it's a novel. How can anyone spend six years working on a novel? If it's true, the author must be an obsessive lunatic, going over sentence after sentence, polishing and polishing until, by the end, one would imagine that would hardly be any book left, or, if there were, a book so mannered, self-conscious and niggly as to be unreadable.

I know many writers do have a hut at the bottom of their garden, or a special den where no child is allowed to enter or, indeed, even breathe when passing by, but I suspect most of these hallowed places are owned by men. And the reason you're not allowed to enter without knocking is because most of the time they're not writing at all. They're playing carpet golf, or Scrabble on screen, or reading the latest book that has nothing at all to do with their work. Indeed, even the phrase "work" rings a false note with me. Or maybe I'm just odd.

For me, writing isn't work. It's just something you do, like taking the car to be serviced, or picking up the children from school. Increasingly, I hate the distinction. When I write, I may bung down a thousand words or so, in about an hour, then spend the rest of the day going to the library, gassing on the phone, emailing friends, shopping, going to the hospital to visit a sick friend... when I get back I might correct the thousand words, perhaps add a bit more if I feel like it - breaking off to listen to my favourite radio soap... and so on. I have no distinctions between day or evening, when it comes to writing, or weekdays or weekends. Writing is just part of my life, like washing up or ironing... a fairly hum-drum and vaguely pleasurable chore that gets done when it has to get done. So much depends on the deadline. If a publisher wants a book by next Thursday, I'll knock it out by then, or if she wants it by next year, it'll be there on the dot.

So, to answer the question, how long does it take to write a book? I have absolutely no idea.

Talk soon - Virginia

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Virginia Ironside, No! I Don't Want to Join a Book Club, novel, old age, humor, book club, retirement, divorce, Penguin Books, books