Notes from the Cotswolds – July 2015
A friend of mine recently pointed out that I had, in her words, ‘A Very Odd Job.’ Sometimes she would find me, typing away in a world of my own, pencils sticking out of my hair and oblivious to everything but the words in front of me. Other days, I’ll be wandering along the river-bank with a spaniel at my heels, muttering to myself and occasionally stopping to scribble in my notebook. I was in danger, she tactfully said, of becoming The Nutter in the Village.
My children cheerfully endorsed this notion. It had been mentioned, they said. True, I have been known to turn up for the school run – an arduous five minute walk through the village – late, distracted and looking as though I’ve just got dressed, hurriedly jotting snippets of dialogue onto the pages of my daughter’s homework diary. My son is utterly convinced that it’s only when the hair-drier and the make-up bag come out and I’m hopping on a train to London that I’m actually ‘being a proper author.’
Explaining to them that writing, for me, is not a nine-to-five job has been an uphill battle: they still firmly believe that I do very little all day, unable to comprehend how going for a swim, walking the dog or even seeking out my favourite tree in the woodland behind my house, could possibly count as working.
Little do they know that the riverbank, the woodland, the cheerful conversation in the Village Post Office, should all be considered my place of work, as they are all feeding the scenes and characters that are developing in my head. The couple having a full-blown row in a field on their romantic Cotswold mini-break? All part of the research. The long wait in A&E with a rugby-injured son? Time to watch and listen.
When it’s time to get the words on the page, and the hours tick so quickly by, it doesn’t matter where I am, but these writing hours are always fuelled by a cocktail of coffee, popcorn and heady bursts of fresh air, frustrating my ever-patient husband as I throw open all the windows, even in the depths of winter. Maybe on some subconscious level, I know that I need to be open, to let the ideas flow in.
Whilst it may be true that writing novels could be considered ‘A Very Odd Job,’ to me there is no job in the world that would give me as much pleasure and satisfaction. Introducing my readers to the wonderful characters that arrive in my head fully formed and begging to be given a voice is an honour and a privilege.
So, with a spaniel on one side and a vat of caffeine on the other, I’ll crack on with today’s words now… And when you get to meet the Doctors of Larkford, their patients and their dogs, think of me, up a tree, searching for a different perspective.
Penny Parkes 