It Shouldn't Happen to a Murderer.

They say a writer’s life is all about inspiration, imagination, and long hours at the keyboard, lost in the world of characters and clues. What they don’t tell you is that half the battle is simply getting to the keyboard in the first flipping place.  Yes, you can tell I’ve had a bad day today….

Because in between the thrilling highs of a crafting an exciting (Well, I think it is) plot twist and the quiet satisfaction of a sentence that finally sings, real life insists on popping its head round the door with an endless list of distractions.

Take earlier this week, for example. Oh, dear reader, I set out with such noble intentions: a clear day devoted to writing, just me, the laptop, and several steaming mugs of coffee. Within minutes, I’d found myself doing… accounts. Not the glamorous sort of “publishing empire” accounts either, but the end of the month, very real numbers-and-receipts kind. The ones that make your brain go foggy and have you double-checking whether a biro refill counts as a business expense. (It does, by the way, I checked.)

Once that was done, I thought I’d finally earned my writing time. But then there was an email from Book Printing UK of Peterborough (brilliant people, by the way. Genuinely helpful and efficient. ) Of course, I had to reply, because even murderers need clean proofs and properly aligned covers. By the time I’d discussed paper weights, margins, and collected the latest print run, my murderous intent had turned to mild exasperation.

And then the dog was sick.

Not in the discreet, easy-to-clean kind of way either. Oh no, this was a full-scale production, complete with sound effects and the sort of strategic carpet placement that would make Poirot proud. And naturally, it had to be on the brand-new carpet, fitted only three days ago.

Now, I’ll confess, I’m terribly squeamish when it comes to that sort of thing.  So, while I retreated to a safe distance, muttering comforting words to myself and trying not to add to the drama, the situation was bravely dealt with by steadier hands. But the time everything was cleaned up, I could’ve written a short chapter.

Naturally, after that ordeal, I needed a strong beverage to recover. And while I was in the kitchen, it occurred to me that we’re only weeks away from Christmas. I was determined not to leave it too late this year, which somehow meant I was suddenly online comparing prices for gifts, wrapping paper, gift tags, and a replacement set of fairy lights. (How do they always tangle themselves in the box? It’s one of life’s great mysteries.)

By the time I finally sat down again to write, I’d lost all sense of where I’d left my characters. Jason, Leah and Mark had been patiently waiting in the corner of my mind, no doubt wondering if their author had quietly fled the country.

Writing a book, it turns out, is only about half writing. The rest is logistics, interruptions, and the occasional domestic drama, all of which could, frankly, fill another book. I sometimes think I should start keeping a parallel journal called The Things That Happened When I Tried to Write.

But here’s the thing: it’s all part of the process. Every delay, every small frustration, every dog-related catastrophe somehow finds its way back into the work. Because the truth is, life doesn’t stop for writers. And maybe that’s a good thing. Those little interruptions are what make the stories feel real.

Still, I can’t help but feel that sometimes… it really shouldn’t happen to a murderer. Ooh. That sounds like a good title for a book. (starts making notes for a new story....)