If I get stuck with my writing, even briefly, or if I’m about to begin a new story, chapter or scene, I like to go for a walk. A thinking walk.
Most of the time when I’m walking, a story will seem to simply unfold. Something loosens between the footsteps and the daydreaming. I’ll hear voices or picture a scene where before I was only wondering. Often, these ideas will feel as if they’ve arrived from nowhere, or from out of the trees, or from the sky. Or even from the tarmac. It’s a bit like magic.
In Nottingham, one of my favourite places to walk is Wollaton Park, especially early in the morning when only the crows and the deer are about. When I’m back in London, it’s Greenwich Park (I really like parks) because my childhood is very powerfully there. Sometimes it feels as if my small, secret writing self is waiting for me, ready to help, in Greenwich Park’s rose garden, or by the ducks.
I know I’m not alone on this one. In her essay Walking into the Story the fabulous Helen Dunmore explores the subject far more eloquently than I ever could. While in The Faith of a Writer the amazingly prolific and generally amazing Joyce Carol Oates confesses that walking doesn’t work so well for her. She runs instead.