Let’s talk about writer’s block, by Meg Rosoff

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Let’s talk about writer’s block.

First of all, I don’t get it. I can always write. What I can’t always do is plot, in fact I’m somewhat hopeless at plot, and am always amazed that my books emerge with any story at all.

But having arrived in Suffolk this week (with series 1-4 of The Wire in case walking on the beach or staring out the window didn’t offer sufficient diversion) I’m toodling along quite nicely, plot and all. The weather helps – not nearly sunny and warm enough to lie on the beach and pretend the vitamin D is therapeutic.  

Instead, it’s wellies and raingear, open fires and big soups. I’ve managed a riding lesson every day this week, and four inches of mud is an excellent motivation for staying firmly in the saddle. Not that I make a habit of flying over my horse’s head, but it has been known to happen. Ten jumps in a figure-eight pattern this morning without a single bar down. Weather be damned, I couldn’t be happier.

Once when I was completely stuck on plot, I took the dogs out to my local London park, and actually met the love interest I was trying to conjure – no not MY love interest, my main character’s. It’s still almost too weird to contemplate – a 40-ish gypsy complete with bandana round the neck, murmuring to his lurcher in Romany -- in the middle of London. I kid you not. He had the most beautiful voice, and was probably working on the funfair nearby, but I didn’t question it. I liked him better as a vision. He walked straight into The Bride’s Farewell – coming to a bookstore near you in August.  

When I was writing What I Was, which was set on this beach, all I had to do was look out the window to be inspired. And when that book got hopelessly stuck (does every writer lose the plot about 2/3 through?) the coastal weather alerts conveniently predicted huge seas and gale force nine winds.

This one’s a bit more complicated, but it’s been a good week and the word count is nudging up towards 30,000. Even the plot, such as it is, has started to creak forward at last.

Another six weeks here on my own and I’d finish the damned thing. Shame I go home tomorrow.  

Meg Rosoff, What I Was, Plume, Penguin Books