Being an author, people think I get up around midday, go for a long lunch and return home to bang out a few pages before pouring myself a glass of wine and finishing for the day.

Hmmm.  Nice thought.  If only it didn’t take me quite so long to bang out those pages . . .

Today I’m woken by the bin men at seven-thirty.  Eyes closed, I’m lying in bed listening to them crashing and banging down the road when, seemingly out of nowhere, an idea begins to form about the next book.  I let it drift.  I don’t try and pin it down.  Gradually it takes a firmer shape and I study it carefully before letting it drift again.

It is this state between waking and sleeping that I find the most valuable for creative thought.  It’s almost like meditation, but not quite, because instead of being clear of thought my mind is occupied with the story I’m trying to tell.  By the time I’m fully awake, I’ve made a handful of notes and am ready to leap into the day.

After a shower, breakfast and a brisk walk, I get stuck in to emails, wanting to clear my mental desk before I start writing.  I’m working on the sequel to Spare Me The Truth, or at least I was until my postie arrives and hands me three parcels, each containing a brand-spanking new hardcover book.  They all look fantastic and although I know I have to read them – I’m on several panels at CrimeFest in Bristol this year with the authors – I really shouldn’t start now.  Or should I?  I flick one open and am immediately captivated by the first page.  This sort of temptation is ever present being self-employed, and I have to force the books away and out of sight.

Credit: Steve Ayres

Soon, I’m completely absorbed in my work and don’t notice the time passing until my email pings.  It’s from a psychologist who is helping me research the psychopathology behind serial killers.  Another arrives, this one from a detective inspector in Manchester.  I know it drives the police crazy when writers get things wrong, so I do my utmost to get my facts right, but I have to be careful with research as it can be so riveting, I never get any writing done.

I work on my manuscript until early evening when I have a quick look at Twitter (another terrible distraction) before deciding whether it’s cold enough to light the wood burner.  Or shall I go to the pub?  Writing is a solitary occupation and aside from the postie, I haven’t spoken to anyone all day.  I’d better go to the pub, I decide, and talk to someone or I might go quite mad.

©CJ Carver 2016