I’ve made so many false starts writing this piece. I’m trying to imagine you reading this too much and I’m thinking of some of the books I’ve read recently where the voice is great, strong and funny and I’ve also got all those snippy little things pestering me on my to do list. It’s funny because what I thought I wanted this piece to be about was around ‘getting down to writing’ which in this moment feels suddenly elusive, almost impossible.

Something that I (usually) do is just write. Not question if it’s any good. Not wonder if it’s turning out how I thought it might. Just write. See what comes out. Trust something will.

Welcome each word. Know that I can go back and sort things out later but for in that moment just enjoy the words appearing on my screen, as if by some kind of alchemy. Where have they come from? I don’t question that too much either.

Block out the to-do list. Tell myself that I will just write for five minutes. Five minutes! It’s nothing. I can do that! Tell myself I will just write something bad. Yes, I can do that! I can at the very least write something that’s quite bad.

Talking to a good friend recently I admitted to her (and myself) that if I thought too hard about what I was doing when writing a book then I honestly thought that I wouldn’t have written anything at all. It interests me, this weird hinterland of trying - but not trying too hard, of pushing yourself - but in the most gentle, playful way possible, of starting a journey when you honestly don’t know where you are going, less the best route to take.

All you seem to know is that you must do it.

And so, you do. And word by word, it builds. Sentences stand on each other’s shoulders; they get taller and taller. It’s somehow thrilling. It feels great! Nothing can stop me!

And if I get stuck I remember: just do it for five minutes and make sure I write something bad. Sometimes that’s the only way in.