I’ve connected with two people writing – very different – books recently. One has already embarked on the process, adding structure and texture to his plot with the glutenous purpose of a baker kneading dough. The other is still at a point of departure. The moment of genesis has occurred, but next steps are as yet unknown. The itinerary and destination may be subject to change.

Being involved with both writers has made me stop and think how much time I’m devoting to my own creative craft and what influence external factors have. My first novelist friend has found himself hampered by good weather. His natural tendency to ‘do’ is taking him outdoors and away from his writing. I’ll be interested to see how longer, lighter days impact progress for the second author in the making.

Nearly a hundred years ago, Virginia Woolf extolled the virtues of ‘a room of one’s own’ to produce fiction. I couldn’t agree more with the concept of a dedicated space (be it mental or physical) in which to create. If, however you’re inclined to engaging with the world, which blossoming nature and the explosion of cultural and social events warmer months annually prompts, there’s also the added issue of having the discipline to actually be in that room.

So what’s the answer? It depends, of course, on how you write. If you appreciate the comforts of your own desk but don’t want to feel cut off from the outside world then a room with French windows, bifold doors or even the dizzying luxury of a conservatory may be the key to continued application. Inviting the outdoors in. If you’re more flexible with your tools, then your notepad, or perhaps your reMarkable tablet, can travel with you as you explore.

Ultimately it’s about mindset. Amongst the things you have (or want) to do that day – work, do life laundry, actual laundry, exercise, eat, perhaps interact with some corporeal humans – how much time can you realistically carve out for writing? In order to compose this I’ve made a conscious decision to shift some work tasks around – and that’s ok as long as I actually deliver on them later. Meanwhile my neglected garden is beginning to resemble a jungle. Carving time for that may involve a machete.

I’m reminded of a visit years ago to a cider farm and learning about the benefits to the trees of winter dormancy. Perhaps as humans we operate in reverse when it comes to creativity. Summer allows us a break from expression in favour of pursuing vitamin D rich experiences, seeking elasticity of body and mind over tunnel visioned dedication. In abandoning our craft we’re actually collecting stimuli in fatty reserves for colder, darker times when they can be called upon to prompt output.

The conundrum may not make sense to those who don’t feel the urge to alchemy, the realists versus the idealists who would think someone mad for finding the northern hemisphere’s tilt towards the sun anything but positive. They’re entitled to that world view in just the same way as an aspiring author is allowed to internally agonise over a joyful picnic sapping precious writing time (whilst also taking childish delight in a cheese sandwich).

I’ll observe my literary companions with respectful curiosity over the coming months, to see if a big project is derailed by the frantic physis found at every turn or enriched by it and how prolific my own writing is. Perhaps, in noticing plants sprout, bud, flower and ripen, their nutritional needs changing at every stage, serves as a useful reminder of how our own state flexes. We write, but we’re human first.