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When I’m in the car with the kids, especially if it’s with the boys, I play a game of “Which would you rather?”

The questions I ask are things like this:

• “Which would you rather be? A cowardly lion or a drunken antelope?”
• “Would you rather have the feet of a goat or the tail of a giant crow?”
• “Would you prefer to swim like a fish or fly like a bird?”
• “Would you rather speak like a croaky old man or have a nose as long as your finger?”
• “Would you like to smell like a flowerpot or feel like a turnip?”

And so on.

The kids ask questions too. Teddy – who is a wonderful child, but can be extremely boring – asks only football-related questions: would you rather score 900 goals for Banbury United (a less-than-wonderful team) or 90 goals for a Premier League side?

Tally, his twin, offers questions on whatever fantasy topic is obsessing her at the time: “would you rather be an air-element creature who’s afraid of flying or a water-element one who doesn’t like getting wet?”

Except for the whole football-related thing, journeys go quite fast and pleasantly. It’s striking how deeply engaged the kids get with even the most absurd questions. “Hmm, who’d win in a battle between a giant squirrel and a platoon of 12 miniature, but grumpy, sheep? Now, let me see …”)

It’s easy to think that this kind of nonsense is a model for writing books.

1. Come up with a wonderfully imaginative concept. (uh – a world where people walk around with daemons in the form of animals, Philip Pullman’s brilliant Northern Lights concept.)
2. Keep the strokes of imagination coming – a device for truth-telling, armoured bears, nomads who live on canals, gangs of child abductors, witches, parallel universes, a knife that can slice through those universes, soul-eating spectres, and more.
3. Write it all really well – quality of execution always vastly matters, of course.
4. Get a bestseller, a film deal, and about 200 tons of critical praise.

And yes. Kind of. But mostly no.

It’s conventional to praise the imagination of novelists – conventional for novelists to honour that aptitude, conventional for teachers to praise kids for their imaginative feats.

But imagination is easy. Our car-full of idiots spouting nonsense about goat’s feet and boozy antelopes is easy enough to create. A lot of the questions feel kind of dull, but plenty don’t. They have some bite. A proto-novelist concealed in the footwell could get enough ideas to fuel a fair few novels.

The real problem isn’t coming up with stuff; it’s disciplining it. There are at least three different disciplines which matter here.

Reality is one. I wrote a novel involving the manipulation of data in an undersea cable. That’s not an absurd idea: there are loads of cables. The war in Ukraine has exposed their vulnerability. There are plenty of companies who offer the ability to operate sub-sea robots to repair breaks and the like.

But (if you’re writing realistic, adult novels) you can’t just wave your hands at all that stuff. You need some measure of accuracy. That’s not really because your readership is going to know all about sub-sea cable repair. It’s more that your writing won’t smell authentic unless it’s deeply rooted in reality. The more you discover about the reality, the more you’ll find details which seem utterly compelling.

So that’s a constraint, a fierce one.

Next, novelty.

Your strokes of imagination are of no value if they feel jaded. Picking up Pullman’s ideas about daemons has no real use now: he’s done it. You could fool around with the exact definition of that idea (daemons take human, not animal, form; children don’t have them, adults do; only the evil or the powerful have daemons; etc), but no matter what you did, the idea would lack novelty. It would lack that sense of something fresh and compelling that readers (and agents) demand.

That’s another fiercely hard constraint to meet.

And then, coherence.

Pullman wrote two back-to-back trilogies about the same fantasy world, but (for my money) only the first of the novels really excels – that book is a true kids’ classic, one that ought to be read and honoured in 100 years’ time. The rest? Crikey, it just gets so baggy. It’s one thing after another. A cowardly lion, then a drunken antelope, then a 900-career-goals player from a north Oxfordshire town, then, what?, a boy with the feet of a goat and the odour of a flowerpot?

Having everything in your novel be new, compelling and yet also clustering round some meaningful central concern? That’s hard.

The difficult thing in writing isn’t imagination as such. It’s roping up those creatures of the imagination into an enclosure that feels realistic, new and coherent. That’s hard. That’s why we’re here, scratching away at these pages, trying to get them to feel right.

And you?

You’re doing something hard and something worth doing. And if you’re doing something hard, but worthwhile, then for the love of every goat-footed boy in Banbury, get help.

And …

Help is 30% cheaper in November

You can become a Premium Member for 30% off (our lowest price ever.) You get our library of self-paced video courses. You get our community. You get AgentMatch. You get live weekly events and workshops (including themed content such as Getting Published and Build Your Book). You get entry to all our competitions. You get query letter reviews (once a year). You get to Ask Us Anything. You get to be supported by probably the most supportive and expert writing group on the planet.

So: join us. We’d be thrilled.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / Ingredients mix

What are the big imaginative strokes in your novel? Like what are the 10-15 biggest elements in your novel? If you’re writing kids’ fantasy novels, that’ll involve obviously imaginative elements like daemons and talking bears. But even if you’re writing perfectly realistic fiction, there’ll be some big elements that give flavour to the entire novel. So: list them out.

The questions I want you to think about when you review your work and give feedback to others are: does this list feel coherent and new? Does it all fit together? Does this collection of ideas feel like a novel?

Because this is a new sort of exercise, let me give you an example of what I’m after. If I were thinking about the make-up of This Thing of Darkness (my subsea cable story), I’d list the following big elements:

1. Cold cases
2. “Impossible” robberies carried out by elite climber
3. Locked room murder puzzle (Marine engineer found hanged in locked room)
4. Exam for sergeant
5. Exhibits officer
6. Ships, marine surveying, the American fiancée of dead engineer
7. Sub-sea cable and interference by hedge-fund types
8. Very good amateur climber who helps Fiona
9. Abduction of Fiona
10. Post abduction trauma and lots of dope-smoking
11. Burgling a young woman in London, smoking dope with her, losing shoes
12. Climax on a trawler in the Irish Sea. Bad guys. Guns. Fiona sinks ship. Rescue.
13. Post-rescue coverup (by Fiona). Arrest of elite climber

That all feels like a reasonable mix to me, except that the “exhibits officer” bit feels a little out of place. And honestly, reviewing the novel now, I’d consider ditching that exhibits officer strand. It added a layer of complexity and atmosphere to the novel which it barely needed. (My books don’t lack either of those things.) Otherwise, yes, that all feels like a nice package – imaginative enough, but also coherent and intriguing.

So: that’s your example. Now go and prepare your own list. Post into this forum on Townhouse. (Remember to log in first!) As ever, be generous with your reviews of others’ work.

Til soon.

Harry

Eight workshops in one week – and a whole lot of breakthroughs along the way. The Write That Draft Bootcamp has recently wrapped up, and if you were there, you’ll know it was equal parts motivating, eye-opening, and (yes) occasionally tough. If you missed it, don’t worry – grab a coffee, and I’ll walk you through the highlights.

Writer’s block: not just laziness (who knew?)

We kicked off with Becca Day, who shared the science behind why writers so often get stuck. It’s not laziness – more often, it’s our brains reacting to fear, pressure, or self-doubt. Becca opened with a quiz to help us pinpoint the root of our own blocks – whether that’s perfectionism, fear of failure or judgement, burnout and overwhelm, decision fatigue, or simply lack of clarity.

Her tips were really helpful, diving into the core issues and what we actually need. She also spoke about somatic rest before you write – just a few minutes of breathing or stretching to calm your nervous system. Don’t use it as an excuse to procrastinate! Keep it short (set a timer) and make sure it works anywhere – for example, if you have writing time in the car while picking up the kids from club on Mondays, your somatic rest could be a quick walk around the car rather than two hours of yoga.

Build your writing “emergency kit”

Next up was Lindsey Alexander, who got us thinking about what we actually need when the words won’t come. She framed it as a personal survival kit – not just the physical stuff, but what works emotionally and functionally for you.

Some of her tips included:

• Make two lists: one for what you’re saying yes to (writing, feedback, creative time) and one for what you’re saying no to (endless scrolling, extra chores, things that drain your energy).
• Keep a writing log: track when you’re productive, when you struggle, and what patterns pop up – this helps you fix blocks before they grow.
• Schedule time and breaks: block out focused writing sessions, but also build in rest. Naps, walks, or even five minutes away from the screen count.
• Rituals matter: use sensory cues to signal “writing time” to your brain – music, a candle, or yes, that “serious writer jumper” – whatever works for you.

The key takeaway? Your kit should support you emotionally (so you feel ready to write) and functionally (so you actually get the words down). Once you’ve got this in place, you’re less likely to get derailed by distractions or doubt – and more likely to keep moving forward.

Habits that don’t make you want to cry

Adrienne Dines was next, and she was all about building routines that actually… stick. She had us ask the big questions (What’s your story about? Why does it happen?), then she went practical: set tiny daily goals, get rid of distractions (your phone will survive in another room, promise), and celebrate the wins.

She even suggested mapping where you’ve got to in your story if you hit a wall. Genius, right? It’s like holding up a map when you’ve been driving in circles muttering, “but I swear the petrol station was round here somewhere…”

The Enneagram and your writing routine

Then Becca was back with a bit of fun – discovering how our Enneagram types shape the way we write. Cue lots of “oh my god, that’s so me” moments in the chat. Honestly, who knew a personality quiz could reveal why I write in frenzied bursts while someone else is scheduling neat two-hour morning slots? Weirdly accurate.

Imposter syndrome: you’re not a fraud (promise)

Rosie Fiore hit us right in the feels with her talk on creative anxiety. That voice in your head that whispers “you’re rubbish”? She basically said: everybody has it. And also: stop waiting for a permission slip to call yourself a writer. You already are one. (Cue collective sniffles and a lot of nodding emojis.)

Fast drafting vs. burnout (the tag-team duo)

Philip Womack stormed in midweek with his rallying cry:

The internet is practically bursting with content on the writing routines of best-selling authors. But these writers already make a living from the craft. Their schedules often feel completely different from those of aspiring debut authors, who might be juggling a day job and caring for dependents while trying to find any spare moment to write. So, is a writing routine necessary – and if so, how can it be tailored to suit you? 

A novel (or non-fiction book) for adults is roughly 80,000 words long. To complete a draft in a year, you'd need to achieve an output of 6,650 words a month (or 1,500 words a week). Viewed like this, the task doesn’t seem insurmountable. And there’s nobody saying you have to finish that first draft in twelve months, either. This is where establishing a writing routine comes in. 

Below, I’ve looked at the writing routines of some of my aspiring debut clients, alongside those of well-known authors: 

Fawzia (aspiring debut): “I have three hours a week to write. That’s it. I’m a mum to two young children and I tell myself I’ll write in the evenings, but I’m too fried. My three-hour stint (when the kids are in childcare) is gold dust. Although it doesn’t amount to a huge word-count, it’s all I’ve got. Without that time, I’d go mad!” 

The famous author: Haruki Murakami rises early, and runs and swims at intervals to break up his desk time. In his words, “Writing a long novel is like survival training. Physical strength is as necessary as artistic sensitivity.”  

Claudia (aspiring debut): “My kids are at school full-time. I teach part time, so I manage to dedicate one day a week to writing. I start as soon as the house is empty and leave everything, including housework and lesson planning, until after the kids are home. I’m not a slave to wordcount because I can’t be. I just have to ringfence this time, and use it as best I can.” 

The famous author: Jodi Picoult starts her narratives already knowing the conclusion, then works backwards to find out how to get there. Jodi’s approach to writing is that it’s a ‘proper’ job and requires an 8-hour day.   

Andreas (aspiring debut): “I live alone. I’m lucky to be able to write during the day, and schedule my paid work in the evenings. I’ve so far turned out an impressive word-count on a weekly basis, but often it’s sketchy and gets deleted and rewritten. But so long as I’m writing, I’m trying my best, even if it’s a long-term work-in-progress.” 

The famous author: Kate Mosse explains, “For me, the writing comes at the very end of the preparation and planning, which might take four or five years. When I write, I start very early in the day – maybe 4 o’clock – with a cup of strong, sweet black coffee and my tiny laptop… I then write for, say, seven/eight hours a day, before disappearing off for a walk or a swim or anything that keeps the old bones moving. After that, a quiet evening with the family… ready to begin again the next morning.” 

Padraig (aspiring debut): “Now the kids have grown and flown, I reserve Saturdays for writing. I guard my Saturdays jealously (it’s become a bit of a family joke). I don’t care how slowly I write, so long as I can keep working on my book that sacred one day a week.” 

The famous author: David Mitchell notes, “I could probably write for ten hours a day if I had them, but I’ve got two young children, so I can either be a halfway decent dad or I can be a writer who writes all day. I can’t really be both. As things stand, I might clock in three hours on a poor day, and six or seven on a productive day. Sometimes… I forget the time until my long-suffering wife begins to drop noisy hints.”  

The final words must go to Kate Mosse, because her writing routine advice fits any lifestyle or circumstance: “Five minutes a day are better than no minutes. You might not yet have time to write that ‘big’ novel you’ve been planning, but everyone – whatever their responsibilities for working, caring, life – can find five minutes a day. Keep a pad and paper by the kettle… or send text messages to yourself. Look at people in the street and think of how you’d put them on the page with just three words… when you do have time to write, you’ll be match fit and ready to go.” 

Four Tips for Establishing Your Writing Routine: 

• Decide when (and how long) you can write for each week 

• Set a ‘time-aside’ goal, or a wordcount goal – and be realistic!  

• Be kind to yourself – sometimes life gets in the way 

• Give yourself time off, too.