I would love to say that I’m a full-time writer, but I’m not. I write when I can. Sometimes on a flight between Cape Town and Johannesburg on my way to a client meeting; more often standing at the kitchen counter waiting for the chicken to cook, in between rescuing my toddler from the back of the couch and yelling at my older son to Go Bath! Aren’t laptops wonderful things? Sometimes I write after everyone has gone to sleep and like a good book you can’t put down, I stay up too late and am shattered in the morning.
Of course, there are periods where I don’t write at all, when I’m simply too busy at work or doing kiddie stuff and life speeds by and I realise it’s been three months since I wrote one word.
I always intend to write when I’m on holiday. I picture myself finally able to sit in my study (now that I have one), glancing up wistfully at a framed portrait of Virginia Woolf hanging above my desk, and churning out an entire novel like a real writer. But this does not happen. Instead my days are filled with trips to the fire station or aquarium or by watching my eldest son doing laps around the pool with his newly acquired doggy paddle skills.
So I write in between my other jobs: looking after my two active boys and working for a deadline-driven magazine publishing company. And this is how I wrote Making Finn.
I am trying to have my cake and eat it.