How to Write a Book When Life Keeps Getting in the Way

People have a wonderfully romantic idea about writing a novel in rural France.

They imagine me sitting at an old oak desk, coffee steaming beside the keyboard, looking out over vineyards while inspiration drifts in on the morning breeze. Perhaps there’s a freshly baked croissant within easy reach and a blackbird singing somewhere in the garden.

The croissant bit is probably true.

Everything else… not so much.

If you’ve got a story that refuses to leave your head, one that’s nagging away every waking hour, you’d think finding the time to write it would be easy. In reality, the moment you decide to sit down at the keyboard, life has other ideas.

Between selling houses, entertaining visitors, trying to keep a three hundred year old French house standing, looking after Coco the pug and receiving regular messages asking, “When’s Book Two coming out?”, finding time to write feels like trying to nail jelly to the wall.

Selling Houses Doesn’t Stop at Five O’Clock

People often assume estate agency is all coffee, viewings and smiling for photographs.

It isn’t.

One minute I’m explaining the finer points of French property law to bewildered British buyers, the next I’m bumping down a track that probably hasn’t seen a road roller since Napoleon, on the way to show a four hundred year old farmhouse hidden in the middle of nowhere.

I genuinely love what I do. Every property has a story and every client has their own dream. It’s endlessly fascinating.

But property doesn’t work office hours.

When an offer comes in late on a Friday afternoon or a compromis needs sorting before Monday, writing gets pushed to the bottom of the list. By the time I finally close the laptop, my brain has spent the day switching between English and French, driving hundreds of kilometres and solving other people’s problems.

Creating believable dialogue is usually beyond me.

Then Summer Arrives

Summer in rural France brings sunshine, long evenings and visitors.

Lots of visitors.

Friends and family suddenly remember where we live. Apparently southwest France becomes particularly attractive during July and August.

We love having people to stay. Long lunches stretch into evenings, conversations drift on under the trees and somehow another bottle from the local Verdots vineyard always seems to appear on the table.

It’s one of the reasons we moved here.

The downside is that hosting people is practically a full time job.

Guest rooms need preparing. Everyone wants to visit the local markets, bastide towns and vineyards. Meals become events rather than something you throw together.

Then someone smiles and says,

“So… how’s the new book coming along?”

Usually just as I’m looking wistfully at the closed laptop in the corner.

The House Always Wins

Owning an old French house is a bit like owning a vintage car.

You never really finish fixing it.

There is always something.

Shutters need painting. Gutters need clearing. Wisteria has ambitions to take over the entire building. Roof tiles decide to relocate after every decent storm and plumbing developed during the reign of Louis XV has a habit of reminding you who’s really in charge.

Weekends that I’d mentally allocated to writing somehow end up in the local bricolage trying to explain, in questionable French and even worse mime, exactly which obscure plumbing fitting I need.

The assistant usually understands eventually.

I’m never quite sure how.

Then There’s Coco

Every house has someone who thinks they’re in charge.

In ours, it’s Coco.

Coco has absolutely no interest in writing novels.

She does, however, have a deep interest in food, walks and making sure I’m never more than three feet away.

The moment I settle down to write, there’s a gentle thump against my leg as she leans on my chair.

Then comes the sigh.

Pug owners will know the one.

It’s a sigh that says, “I appreciate you’re trying to write the next bestseller, but have you considered stroking me instead?”

Ignoring her is pointless.

Within minutes the snuffling starts, followed by the soulful stare that only a pug can manage.

Resistance is futile.

The Lovely Problem

None of this would matter quite so much were it not for the people who’ve read my first novel.

Every message asking when the sequel is coming out is both wonderful and slightly guilt inducing.

As a writer, there isn’t much better than knowing readers want to spend more time with your characters.

The trouble is, those characters don’t politely wait until I’m free.

They arrive while I’m driving to viewings.

They appear halfway through conversations.

They wake me up at three in the morning with another plot twist I’d forgotten to think of before going to bed.

The story is there.

It’s been there for months.

I just need enough uninterrupted hours to get it onto the page.

So How Does the Book Get Written?

The answer is simple.

You stop waiting for the perfect moment.

Because it never arrives.

Instead, you steal time wherever you can.

I write for twenty minutes before a property viewing.

I dictate ideas into my phone while driving between appointments.

Sometimes I get up before everyone else, make a strong coffee and write while the house is still quiet and Coco is, miraculously, still asleep.

Is it ideal?

Not remotely.

The weeds grow a little taller.

The jobs list gets a little longer.

There are days when I’ve written five hundred words and feel as though I’ve climbed Everest.

But every chapter gets me a little closer.

Eventually, one stolen morning at a time, there’ll be another book.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, Coco has just told me she’s hungry, and I really should finish this chapter before someone opens another bottle of Verdots and suggests we all go to the night market.

After all, tomorrow is another writing day.

Probably.