A little bit, word by word ... by Sophia Bennett

I write this in my shed, on the hottest day of the year, to the sounds of next door's barbecue wafting through the open doors. In a minute I'll go and make a salad to feed the children (12, 17 and 18), then dash off to visit my husband in intensive care before the end of visiting hours.

I haven't made much progress on the book this week. OK, any progress.

I've spent a lot of time in the garden, fulfilling my teaching commitments, buying and making food, and reassuring the family my husband isn't as ill as the last time he was in intensive care. The 'write ABBA blog post' has been at the top of my to do list for days but, like the growing list underneath it, has been put off from day to day. Until now, when the deadline is midnight.

Just as I imagined, it feels good to feel my fingers on the keyboard, to search for words and find them, sometimes, and reach for a rhythm that comes and goes. It is a step towards getting back to the book and I'm looking forward to next week, when I'll find more time to insert myself into the intricacies of its plot, and eek the word count forwards a little bit, word by word ...

I'm inspired by other writers, who write about writing through times far more difficult and complicated than this one. Parents who sit beside their very sick children and crack on with the story; PD James, who wrote for years with a senior Civil Service job to do and a sick and difficult husband to care for, who had been broken by his experiences in the Second World War; writers who've been bereaved or betrayed, and still kept to the deadline somehow, and kept the words coming.

Sometimes you can't, of course. A good friend of mine, one of the most talented children's writers I know, lost her husband suddenly and couldn't write for a year. So she painted, and looked after herself and her children, and eventually the words returned. I've had times when I simply couldn't face the empty page, but this isn't one of them. The story is plotted, my characters are brimming with life and I've left them in suspended animation at a critical moment, which I'm keen to get them out of.  Nothing would cheer my husband up more than for me to waft in with tales of chapters written and plot points resolved.

But I've learned over the years to be kind to myself. Like the nurses in intensive care, I'll take this day to day. If I can make progress, I will, and if I can't, I won't add to the stress by berating myself. I'll try and be inspired, too, though, by the many, many children I've encountered over the years on school visits who've overcome unbelievably tough experiences to be creative, and have used creativity to get through. If the boys and girls of Kensington Aldridge Academy can write a fantastic story, surely so can I?

And we need stories. They get us through the tough times. They're what inspired me to write in the first place, when I was little and freshly transplanted to the other side of the world, with only my favourite books for company. E. Nesbit, Noel Streatfeild and Anthony Buckeridge saved me for a while. One of the things that makes me most happy is to know that Threads, my first novel, is the go-to book for lots of stressed-out teens who read it when they were 10 or 12, and keep it as their under-the-duvet read. I'd love the new book to be that kind of story too.

But first I must write it. A few words at a time. After I've done this blog post (a good writing exercise), and made the salad and been to the hospital, and watered the garden on this blazing hot, glorious, English summer's day.

Sophia Bennett
www.sophiabennett.com