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  • For at least four months now, I've been saying 'I'll get back to work on my new novel when we've moved house'.

    We've moved to our new house.

    We've been here a month. At the weekend we had our house-warming in glorious sunshine, and a stream of lovely people brought lavender and sat in our garden and ate blondies. The house is warmed.

    I have a physical writing space. A glossy chestnut-coloured antique school desk which hides my laptop inside. The heart-shaped wire candle-holder my friend Esther gave me, which I light when I'm writing. My half-pint milk bottle full of daisies from the garden.

    What more do I need? What am I waiting for?

    I'm frightened of clearing space for writing in my diary.

    I'm frightened of being an awful writer. I'm frightened of not living up to my last book. I'm frightened of saying no to clients who can only do the times when I've said I'm writing and all my other clients finishing at once and not being able to pay the mortgage. That's just for starters.

    It would be much easier to not be a writer. God/Buddha knows I've got enough other things to be getting on with.

    But how can I sit here in this half-shaded garden and not tell you about the long tubes of papery caramel-coloured bark hanging from our eucalyptus tree? How can I resist showing you the shocking pink rose campions on their silver candelabras? And how can I desert April, who's the protagonist of the novel I've been stuck with, before her story is told?

    The best way of dealing with fear is to admit it, and then to go ahead regardless. I cleared space in my diary today. I will sit at my desk tomorrow morning and open the manuscript. I will write a sentence, and then another.

    What do you need to do tomorrow? Join me. Admit it. Go ahead regardless.
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