My productivity - or rather lack of - is something I've been thinking about a great deal over the summer. A question I've found myself encountering time and time again is where is the best place to get work done. And much to my excitement I think I've cracked it.
You may be thinking nice, quiet office with
a cushy leather office chair. Or you might say the relaxing atmosphere of a
Saturday morning sat at your kitchen table, with a freshly squeezed OJ and the
dulcet tones of Radio 2 playing softly in the background. Maybe you think you
work at your best from the comfort of your bed on a Tuesday night, donning
flannel pajamas large Pinot Grigio in hand.
Undoubtedly, all great places to work.
Sometimes you need peace and quiet. Sometimes you need Jeremy Vine’s familiar
tones. Heck, sometimes all you need is a nice large glass of something cold and
Italian to spur you on to meet your word count.
But the best place of all really does come
from the huge clichéd stereotype of writers. No, not the washed up, writer’s
block-ridden Edward Morra in Limitless, penning his dead-end novel from the familiar squalor of his pigsty of a New York flat.
Equally, it’s not always as glamorous as
Carrie Bradshaw makes it out to be, juggling her relationships and shoe
collections with deadlines and interviews in the exclusive borough of Manhattan
where she resides. Nor is life as a journo always quite as exciting as Tintin’s; the
adventurous reporter turned eponymous hero, never without his trusty sidekick
Snowy in tow.
So it’ll probably come as no surprise to you
when I tell you I’m at my most productive cuddled on a sofa in the corner of a
well-known coffee shop chain, hot chocolate in one hand, large calorific pastry
in the other.
Writer’s block is something to which I am
very familiar, despite my brief career so far. It’s not that you don’t have the
ideas or inspiration, it’s that you can’t get them out. I imagine it’s similar
to how a mute must feel; thoughts whizzing round your head, and simply no way
to get them out, make yourself heard. It’s frustrating, agonizing, and more
than anything down right bloody inconvenient. My inconsiderate arsehole of a
brain obviously doesn’t appreciate the fact I have deadlines to meet, when it’s
playing hide and seek with my ability to string a half-decent sentence
together.
So when I’m in the grip of this foul beast
(yes, I do personify it, and it really is an awful creature!) I take myself off
to a coffee shop and settle myself in a corner where I can see everyone come
and go. Before I know it, the juices start flowing – well, I am sort of writing
about clichés, why not include a few?! – I type word after word, and sometimes
if I’m lucky I read it back and not only does it make sense, but it is vaguely
engaging! Huzzah.
By the time I pause for breath, I often
find my mocha has gone cold and the population of fellow customers has turned
over twice. But it's all worth it, because I've succeeded in putting pen to paper: a fundamental skill often frequently but temporarily disengaged in a writer's existence. I've met my word count, whilst adding some points to my loyalty card. Surely a win win situation for everyone.
