Writing in Bed
I love being a writer. Especially early on icy mornings when the rest of the world is trekking out into the winter deep and I’m cosy in my bed – working hard. Writing a blog post, a synopsis, a chapter start or a whole. Or perhaps reading: industry mags, writing “how to’s”, or the novel I’m desperate to finish. Yes, reading is working – for writers. It’s a bit of a joke in my house some mornings when hubby says, ‘Glad to see you’re working hard,’ while he kisses me goodbye.
It’s my bliss and very good fortune to have married a man who brings me a cup of tea in bed every morning. With my mobile by my bedside, I can check my emails, Facebook, News of the Day, action on my blog and all things writerly without even throwing off the covers. It’s a huge buzz to step out of bed and already have written a poem, planned a storyline, or made a good writing start to the day. Makes me feel positively angelic.
I thought I’d google “writing in bed” to find an image to accompany this post, and ‘Lo’, I discovered lots of writers like/d to work in bed. Orwell finished the final draft of 1984 banging it out on a typewriter in his sick bed. It seems Mark Twain, Edith Wharton, Proust and many others wrote in bed too. I wonder if their type of genius grows through the practise. Here’s hoping.
I remember writing one of my favourite children’s stories, sitting up in bed one school holiday morning with the children still asleep, bar one up watching Thunderbirds, and giving myself permission to write a fairytale. A departure from my usual reality based stories. Transported, I wrote the first three chapters of Snozza in one sitting. I don’t know that I would have given myself the same freedom seated in front of the computer.
Sometimes writing in bed allows me to play beyond my usual style. I wrote my successful publishers’ pitch for last year’s SCBWI conference in bed – playing with presenting as my character. I’m pretty sure if I’d sat down to plan a pitch, in front of the computer, it would never have come from such a creative place.
Needless to say, my children are all adults now. No lunches to make or playlunch to pack. And I don’t work in bed every morning. Only I do try to read, I mean work, in bed for a short time as often as I can. Or I will again at the end of the uni semester. What sadist timetabled a 9 a.m. class? Don’t they know I’m a writer?