I'm writing a novel while brushing my teeth

(Or, at least, that's what it feels like at the moment)

Aug 16, 2022

Children, noise and chaos - everywhere and all at once

I’ve been interrupted nine times since I started writing this paragraph. Scratch that, 12 times (and I’m writing this sentence the day after the first one). In fact, I’ve been trying to write this entire post for a few weeks, but I’m in the trenches of the summer holidays, and there’s barely any time in which to write, let alone write about writing.

With two young children who only have access to formal childcare during term time, the reality is that my husband and I must take huge, non-concurrent chunks of annual leave to cover the summer childcare void, in addition to generous help from grandparents and occasional half-days at the wonderful (but expensive) holiday club at our school.

Don’t get me wrong: we know we’re lucky to have access to even these options – and for there to be two of us. But, despite all these privileges, my writing in recent weeks has been forced to become a stealth operation of snatching moments here and there to get words – any words – out of my head and onto the page.

Writing when you’ve got children is never easy at the best of times. But writing when you’re constantly in each other’s company is nigh on impossible. And that’s why I liken it to trying to write a novel while cleaning your teeth.

Because your teeth need cleaning, there’s no question about that. You like your teeth and you want to look after them. But when you clean your teeth it’s practically impossible to multitask. Your hands are in constantly in use and you’re obligated to remain in a stationary position (unless you’re a character in an American film who can somehow walk and / or talk while brushing their teeth without foam dripping everywhere). Even if you have a really great idea while brushing, you have to finish the task at hand before you can let the idea do its thing.

Now imagine brushing your – and everyone else’s – teeth all day, every day. All the ideas for your characters and the world they inhabit are crashing into each other in your mind, but the opportunities to capture them before they disappear down the plughole simply don’t exist.

Trying to write amongst this wild chaos is creatively frustrating, especially when you’re midway through the first draft of a story that’s straining to exist as quickly as possible. But I recently realised something: if it weren’t for my children, my stories wouldn’t exist at all.

Without my children, I wouldn’t be surrounded by confounding yet undeniably inspiring people who challenge me to think differently every day.

Without my children, I’d still be on the conveyor belt of a ‘traditional’ career path, heading upwards on an endless trajectory, never pausing to wonder why I felt so unfulfilled.

Without my children, I wouldn’t have stopped giving a shit about massive stuff that made me feel nothing but outrage, nor started giving a shit about smaller things that make me feel even a tiny bit hopeful.

No, my children don’t give me the gift of time in which to write. But they have given me the gift of realising that this is what I want – and need – to do for the rest of my life.

A few years ago I read What I Talk About When I Talk About Running* by Haruki Murakami. I finished the book with two overriding thoughts: firstly, I was genuinely pleased he’d managed to cultivate such an incredible life in which he can spend as much time as he wants doing all the things he ever dreamed of. But, secondly, I couldn’t deny the jealousy I felt: because many women like me will never have the time and headspace to pursue all our creative endeavours without having to worry about the endless drudgery of cleaning teeth.

This is what Murakami said about his writing routine in a separate 2004 interview:

“When I’m in writing mode for a novel, I get up at four a.m. and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for ten kilometers or swim for fifteen hundred meters (or do both), then I read a bit and listen to some music. I go to bed at nine p.m. I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it’s a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind.”

Every writer is different. And every writer will have an ideal way of working that enables them to produce their very best work. However, my optimum creative routine will remain beyond my grasp for many, many years to come. Until then, I must make do with the twilit cracks through which I slowly tease out the threads of a single idea, millimetre by millimetre, while simultaneously brushing, brushing, brushing.

The process is slower than I’d like because I have no choice. Many other creators, like Murakami, can constantly work on their craft, discarding countless pieces until they hit upon one that works. I have many privileges in my life, but I’ll never have that one. And working to make peace with that will always be a massive part of my life as an author.

This month’s tip for other aspiring authors: Consider co-writing! I’ll be sharing more about the joy of co-writing soon, but I get so much out of writing in companionable online silence with other writers for an hour or so a couple of times a week. I recently joined a new Zoom Writing group organised by author Chloe Timms. Details about her ‘Get the words down’ weekly co-writing sessions are here.
Currently reading: Love And Other Human Errors by Bethany Clift*. I LOVED Bethany Clift’s first novel*, so I’ve been looking forward to this one for ages. It’s a speculative rom-com set in the not-too-distant future and it’s wonderfully nerdy so far.
What I recently enjoyed reading: Skip To The End by Molly James (published 18 August 2022, review copy kindly provided by Quercus Books). This rom-com with a magical realism twist was a brilliantly funny, escapist read. As soon as Amy Daniels kisses someone, she can foresee – in vivid detail – how their relationship will end. For years she's been searching for her happy ending, but no luck so far. That's until she gets hammered at her best mate's wedding, snogs three blokes and has The Premonition she's been waiting for. Trouble is, she can't remember which premonition belonged to which bloke, so must embark on a quest to find out. Stories that play around with reality are 100% my bag, and Molly James's writing style had me hooked from start to finish. There was also an unexpected revelation towards the end that made me gasp with emotion.
What I last enjoyed watching: Prima Facie, National Theatre Live. I’m not actually sure that ‘enjoy’ is the right word for this, but this cinema screening of a one-woman play – starring Jodie Comer and written by Suzie Miller – had me gripped from the moment the virtual curtain rose. I don’t want to say too much about it because the impact of this show resides in the unexpected. But this was a masterclass in showcasing how vital social issues and systemic inequalities can be laid brutally bare through the power of storytelling. Five million stars.
What I’ve been thinking a lot about: Prima Facie, end of.