Today is a sad day. Because it’s time to say goodbye to my writing cupboard.
The wife and I have bought a new house and moved out of our old flat. And so I am also moving out of the cupboard in which I spent so many hours writing.
It was my home for many years. My tiny writing sanctuary. A place to escape from the wife and create books that, hopefully, people would enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Over the last five years, I sat in my little cupboard and wrote one and a half novels (George Thring was already half done when we moved in and the whole of Killing Dylan was penned in there); a few short stories; two episodes of an ill-fated sitcom, which I co-wrote with my friend Matt (and no, it didn’t ever get anywhere near actually being on the telly); and many, many bits of marketing copy (my day job as a copywriter) for numerous corporate clients – and my mate Dave.
My cupboard was a great little place. It was cramped. It was cold. It was a little damp. It had no windows or any trace of natural light. But I could (only just) fit a desk and chair in. I could shut myself away and get some work done. And it helped create the stunning headline for the Crawley Observer: Man writes book in his cupboard!
So farewell little cupboard. You will be missed. But in the new house I get an actual whole room to write in. With a window. And a radiator. Imagine what I’ll be able to come up with in there?