I find it hard to write on the train. I can get ideas, can plan, can mull - but if I put pen to paper, it rarely works. The balcony's tricky too, as is downstairs in the local library where everybody chatters. And yet, on a trip to Chicago, I sat with my friend in the most crowded bar, and in spite of the noise and music, a story flowed out.
It's strange how certain places seem to open us to writing. Perhaps it's to do with how relaxed we feel, or maybe how much we need the work. When I first moved overseas to Boston and turned up in a small flat with no furniture at all, I perched at the worktop with the only stool we owned, and the words poured out because I needed them. Here, in story, was a world I'd brought with me - one that was so familiar I could allow every problem it posed. In fact, I've often felt, whatever happens in life, my creativity's a home I'll never quit.
On the other hand, it can be exciting to write against an environment. I've written sex-scenes in snooty English tearooms, and have penned about paganism in Exeter Cathedral (where mermaids and green men watch from the bosses - the symbols adopted by Medieval Christians to bring pagans into the fold).
But these are tiny rebellions.
When I think of writers who were bold enough to write against cultural restrictions (Salman Rushdie immediately springs to mind) it makes my small environmental challenges seem flip.
I'll write on the train tonight.
Comments