In the last twelve weeks, I’ve written less than ever in my life.

          The only thing I’ve been consistently writing is a sort of diary, each entry covering a week of my new life and usually scribbled down at 3am with my baby daughter dozing off on one shoulder. As a first-time mother, I’m learning that writing can be squeezed into tiny spaces and that even on four hours sleep, I can be imaginative (though it’s a slog). When my babysitter’s here (and I wouldn’t have a hope of finishing Dreamrunner without her), I write in the next room, separated by a glass door that doesn’t shut properly, and with constant, happy interruptions – I’m welling up with empathetic emotion while writing a dramatic scene in the novel when suddenly it’s time to feed the baby, or I’m rushing to form an idea which could really be something when I need to go through and sit with my pretty little girl snuggled to my chest until she falls asleep, before transferring her to the sitter and going back to my laptop.

          So I’m writing Dreamrunner in a helter-skelter sort of way, not really pausing to look back at this stage as I just don’t have the leisure to. It’s a new way of writing – I used to love editing and re-editing my chapters as I went along, inserting new threads and removing all the extraneous stuff, and just fiddling – and so far, this new way is exhausting (there are times when I’d honestly rather be catching up on lost sleep) but it’s good, too, because it’s teaching me to be flexible with my writing.

          I’m realising that novel-writing doesn’t have to be done in peace, by the sea; it doesn’t have to be done in grand instalments, nor does it have to be an intensely private, don’t-you-dare-look-over-my-shoulder endeavour. It’s a word-by-word thing, so it can be grabbed here and there… kind of like lost sleep. J

There’s something hugely satisfying about writing organically – no clear-cut plan, just a strong sense of character, a few vivid scenes moving in the mind, and an inkling of how it’s all going to turn out. There’s freedom in watching as one image transmogrifies into another in the writer’s trance so that before you know it, the story is spooling out in Technicolor, creating itself like a dream.

But for the first time, I’m doing things very differently. I’ve written a detailed chapter plan for Dreamrunner and I’m systematically going through it. Sometimes it feels dreadfully mechanical; I sit at my desk and say, Right. It’s Monday. I need to write chapter thirty… OK, so what am I writing about? (I consult The Plan) Aha, it’s the scene with the street kid and the sapphire amulet. Where’s my pen? Here we go…

This change in technique is because of the deadline, of course, which I’ve realised I can either think of as a creativity-crusher or a creativity-liberator. A lot depends on the way you see things. Although having The Plan is a bit organised for my taste, I’m trying to see this as a valuable novel-writing technique, and it’s true I understand much more now how some writers manage to bang out two or more books a year – they must have a Plan!

The challenge I’m facing now with Dreamrunner is that although I know exactly where I’m going in terms of chapter-by-chapter plot development, I need to keep writing organically within this structure so the unexpected can still appear and the magical heart of the novel keeps beating freely. I find daydreaming in a café by the sea with a pen, The Plan and a chocolate croissant to hand does the trick. J

I’m thinking longingly of Chicago. It’s like an ache in my throat. I’ve never even been to the place, but it’s about to host one of the most fabulous yearly conferences: a dream conference where people connect through their dream imagery, spend days immersed in creative workshops and presentations, art exhibitions and special events, and end up at a rollicking costume ball where everyone dresses up as a dream they’ve had and dances the night away.

Since I can’t be there this year, a friend of mine has graciously offered to present my paper on lucid dreaming, synaesthesia, and sleep disorders; it’s about dreaming into fiction. Writers daydream books into existence, they draw on original imagery embedded in their unconscious and freely available in dreams. I love that about writing – there’s no end to creativity because new dreams are dreamed every night and can be expanded by day into fiction. Could there be a more fun career? OK, I know it’s not all just dream-fun but masses of hard graft too, but dreaming certainly peps up the whole process big time.

When I think of IASD (Int. Assoc. for the Study of Dreams) conferences, I think of the friends I’ve made and the dreams I’ve heard. I remember dressing up as a blonde hippie-chick for the dream ball; standing in the booming silence of giant redwoods in a forest in Sonoma; watching in my dream as a monkey woman gives birth to a smiling baby. You come away from a conference like that not only replete with your own dreams, but filled with the powerful, emotive dream images of others. It makes for a kind of turbo-boost of creative imagery which can split your mind so wide that suddenly it’s teeming with story energy and you can’t wait to leap to your desk and write by day… and close your eyes and swim back into your dreams at night. Well, that’s how it affects me, anyway. Do I sound jealous that I’m not going this year? I am!

Something to try: tomorrow morning when you wake up, don’t get up immediately. Stay in the same position for a moment with your eyes closed and think back to what you were just doing in your dreams. Even if all you remember is a shape or a sound or a feeling, that’s fine. Using your dream image/colour/emotion as a starting point, take a pen and write for five minutes without stopping to think. See what happens… surprise yourself.