I’ve done a bit of guest blogging over the past few weeks. I’ve been thrilled to appear on the blogs of far more experienced writers than me and I didn’t want to behave badly or hang around too long hogging the limelight, so I heeded Benjamin Franklin’s advice: Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days, and kept my remarks short and sweet. I tried to be honest and I hope they revealed something about the real me, and that my natural reticence didn’t get in the way.
Our conversations have covered everything from what I read as a child to which book I would read if the world was coming to an imminent end. (I couldn’t answer that one). In between we tackled my writing inspiration, how much time I spend on social media (far too much and not nearly enough) and what I’m most proud of. Some of the questions really made me think, like what would I be doing if I wasn’t a writer? I have absolutely no idea.
I’ve been asked if there’s a special place that works best for me, what’s the best time of day and which writing instruments I prefer, but one other necessity didn’t get a mention, so I’ll address that now. The humble cup of tea. This is an absolute must-have. Preferably constantly refilled by an unseen hand that knows better than to interrupt, and accompanied by the occasional biscuit. A bag of liquorice is a nice bonus (well, I do come from Pontefract, its spiritual home).
My sincere thanks to these fellow bloggers who have hosted me over the past few weeks: