A Writing Place

On the back of a postcard of the Yorkshire Dales, I wrote a few sentences about my favourite ‘Writing Place’. This was for a competition hosted by Arvon who run top quality writing courses. http://www.arvonfoundation.org/ It was here that I wrote the first 5,000 words of Glass Houses, met my friend and writing buddy, Author, Jane Rusbridge, and was so inspired by the need to take this writing lark seriously that I came home and handed in my notice forthwith.  

I say I wrote my missives, ‘on the back of a postcard’, thankfully I’d had the foresight to buy five from my local post office which is probably why, when I was tidying up my study earlier – for tidying read, filing old scribbles which should be re-cycled and re-ordering my To Be Read pile- I stumbled across one of the four rejected cards. Establishing my experimental piece of flash fiction hadn’t taken obscenely long, I’d written it in my head while I was running. Producing a legible, flawless script, however, proved to be one of life’s little challenges; the ones which beat you around the head just at a time when your deadline dictates you need to sit very calmly and still.

Lumb Bank, one of four Arvon centres

My entry didn’t win, nor was it a runner up, so forgive me for ignoring the loud hint to bury this copy in the back of a forgotten drawer somewhere. But I like it because it reminds me of why I must always find time to put on my trainers, and explains how somebody who misses the company of people from previous employment, could be as equally addicted to the solitary sport of running, as writing.

Trip, trap, trip, trap, my feet bounce from the roots and branches covering the wooded track. My woolly hat, with its thick, blue bobble, is pulled down over my ears. My fingers are numb and my cheeks are burning in the cold wind. But my core is warm, my calves are pumping and my heart has found its steady beat. I drift to that place of creative thought where tricky passages are unravelled, blog posts devised and novel plots wondered. There is little interruption; a diving Red Kite adds to my description and a chance conversation only helps with characterisation. Running is my new page. This is why my feet are my favourite writing place.

Where’s your favourite place to write, to read, to be? Where do you go to think?