To paraphrase ol’ Leo, all writing processes are different in their own way. In other words, no matter how many blogs or articles you might read about how authors prefer to do their work, how they prepare, where they like to sit, what they like to have around them, what time of the day they do it etc, in the end it all comes down to what works for you. So, does the world really need another this is how I do it piece? No, of course not, but it may as well have this one.

Yes, there are probably thousands of these on t’internet, advice you didn’t ask for from people you’ve never heard of. So, well, one more won’t hurt, I suppose. These few items are just a general collection of various ideas, none of which are necessarily sure-fire winning stratagems but, maybe, one or two of them might work for you.

1 – Read as often, as much and as many varied things as you can.

You may have heard the old Alain de Botton line, that writing a book is like telling a joke and having to wait two years to know whether or not it was funny. It’s an allusion, of course, to the fact that after spending sooooooo long thinking about and researching and planning and then writing, then re-writing, then editing and re-writing your book, you then send it out to agents and publicists and publishers.

I had always been interested in words and writing, for almost as long as I can remember. As a young child I would very often flick through my parents’ and grandparents’ newspapers, not because I had any great interest in current affairs or World politics – I was probably only 5 or 6 at the time – but because the actual writing, the words, the structure and conveyance of thoughts and ideas appealed to me. I think, if I’m remembering it right, that I wanted to be a journalist back then. As I got a bit older I began writing stories, just short things that were no doubt highly derivative of tales I’d read in books but, I thought, at least I’m writing, and it’s rather good fun!

When I studied media at college, our class basically had to share one computer. So rare and revered was it, it even had its own private room, a kind of grandiose cupboard into which we would all pile when it was time to do some – gasp – wore processing. I can’t quite remember now whether it had blue or green text, but the screen was black and, even then, using it felt like being in some old sci-fi show, where it would just be the coloured text, the black screen and nothing more, and the height of the keys on the keyboard was such that it was more painful to use for any length of time than the cruddy old typewriter I was still bashing away on at home. It wasn’t exactly the most satisfying thing to use, but still it did feel like a treat whenever it was cupboard day. It was like we were Dr Who or something.