Pippa Wright's Blog

Life imitates art, or something like it.

My new book is published this week. It feels like quite a long time ago that I finished it, so it’s nice to see it released into the wild at last. Run free, little book! May you prosper out there!

My heroine, Kate, has lost pretty much everything in her life when the book opens. Her marriage is over, her career’s at a dead end, and she’s got nowhere to live except her dead granny’s ugly bungalow which no estate agent can sell. 

The one thing she has left is her dog, Minnie. Well, she’s a puppy really. Minnie even makes it onto the cover, thanks to clever designer Jo. The puppy was partly a plot device - Kate can sometimes be quite an unsympathetic character, and I wanted to show that she could be kind and thoughtful towards her dog, if not to anyone else. But it was also, I can’t deny it, a bit of wishful thinking.

I’ve wanted a dog forever, and having a heroine who owned one allowed me to indulge in a puppy-owning daydream of countryside walks and faithful companionship. Only I think I perhaps let the dream take over a bit. I couldn’t help myself.

Meet Bill.

Bill is very much not a plot device. He’s my own puppy; isn’t he delightful? And I owe it all to Kate’s Minnie - if you write it, it just might happen…

Please excuse me while I go and write a new novel about a heroine with untold riches and extraordinarily good luck in everything.

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A place to write

When you write books, kind friends often suggest they know a perfect place for you to go and get some work done. ‘It’s miles from anywhere!’ they say. ‘You won’t see a soul all week! Your only companions will be the sheep!’

I think I’d probably go completely mad in a matter of days. (And so would the sheep, from me trying to engage them in conversation. ‘Hey, nice day, huh? How’s the grass this morning? WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TALK TO ME?’)

And anyway, I think I have already discovered my perfect place to run away and write.

My needs are quite specific. It’s got to be in a town. A village is too small, but a city is too distracting. There should be enough to do that I can escape for an afternoon, but not so much that I’m all, ‘You know, I think today I’ll just explore the sights of Barcelona instead.’

I choose Lyme Regis. Lovely Lyme. Everything is better when you’re by the sea.

I choose a space that is beautiful and restful, so I don’t mind being there for most of the day while I’m working (possibly I should have made the bed before taking this photograph):

I choose a space with a balcony so I can admire the view/sunshine when I take a break, and also an actual TELESCOPE for when I am feeling nosey (aka always):

I choose a studio that is several minutes’ walk from the centre of town, with a leg-killingly steep incline on the way back. Just the thought of this hill is often enough to make me decide to just stay in & do more work instead. My word count thanks you, steep hill.

I choose somewhere that has no Wifi. This is essential. The guestbook is full of people begging for Wifi - people with, you know, busy lives & no book to write. Shut up, normal people! Don’t ruin it!

I choose Little West Hill Studio and you can choose it too, via Lyme Bay Holidays (www.lymebayholidays.co.uk, property code A4409).

This sounds like an advert, doesn’t it? I promise it’s not. It’s just a great place where I have not only written tons, but also got the idea for my new book, The Foster Husband, which is partly set in Lyme as a result.

I hope it might prove equally inspiring for you.

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Rip it up and start again.

Oh God. I have just binned my new book and started again. Goodbye 20,000 words. I’ve known for days it had to happen, maybe weeks even, if I’m honest with myself. But I’ve kept on going as if by putting more words down I would somehow write myself away from the problem.

It’s hard to tell if your intuition is right on this sort of thing. How do you know if you’re just making excuses not to get the work done? There’s always a point in the life of a book when it seems like you should throw it away, and usually you persevere and it gets there somehow.

Maureen McHugh sums it up pretty neatly in this excellent graph, The Life of a Project.

But I think also you have to know when you’re coming at something from the wrong direction. When though the The Greatest Idea You’ve Ever Had is still essentially sound, you’re expressing it in a way that (thank you, Maureen) sucks.

Those 20,000 words aren’t wasted, though. At least I bloody hope not. I think I know how I need to write this book now. FAST, ha ha. 

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New book and Brixton Market

I am being all serious about writing this new book full time. Seriously. I’ve hired a desk in a shared office space in Brixton. I have a nice little commute (aka a walk through the park), a fancy desk and colleagues-who-aren’t-colleagues. It is great. It gives me all the fun of having workmates - gossiping in the kitchen and going ‘ooh haircut’ when someone visits the barber’s - without the irritating bits like all-day meetings and budget forecasts. Also there are free biscuits.

But the true and distracting bonus of working here is very close proximity to Brixton Market. I lived in Brixton for years and years and during that time Brixton Market mostly sold racks of unidentifiable meat, exotic vegetables and worryingly synthetic clothing. It was a great place to buy cheap food and my first Christmas in London, when we had no money at all, I remember that we decorated our Christmas tree entirely with chillies we’d bought on special offer there. 

Now I’ve moved a few miles away, of course it’s turned into the sort of foodie paradise that gets written up in the New York Times, which means there’s a disconcerting number of hipsters clogging the place up at the weekends. In the week, though, it’s perfect. Great little independent food retailers doing their thing, and no queues.

So, because I’m very serious about writing my new book, very serious indeed, and not at all looking for excuses to write other stuff, here are my favourite places in Brixton Market. Try them!

Federation Coffee. I get my coffee here every morning and it’s every bit the equal of Monmouth or Fernandez & Wells. Brixton-roasted beans, and lovely people in charge. A piccolo or a flat white, if you’re offering.

Casa Morita. God, it’s hard to find decent Mexican food in London. The new wave of Mexican restaurants are (with the notable exception of Wahaca) often very ropey and disappointing. Hurrah for Casa Morita’s authentic and delicious menu, not to mention last time I was there I also managed to pick up a pair of rather nice earrings from Oaxaca, too. And if you’re skint, a quesadilla is under three pounds. Bargain.

Seven. Cocktails. They do food here too, but for me it’s all about the cocktails, made by very beautiful, very young bar staff. I felt incredibly ancient standing at the bar, but one sip of a Cinnamon Manhattan sorted me out. Warning: they do serve some cocktails in glass jars, which always makes me shudder - so faux-homey. But I think we can just about let this pass.

Honest Burger. There’s one in Soho now, so even if you can’t face trekking to Brixton you don’t have to miss out. Obviously the burgers are great. It’s their thing. But I have to admit that, for me, it’s all about the triple-fried rosemary chips. And I’m not even a particularly big fan of chips. But these! Oh my gad. Order double.

Brixton Cornercopia. I know - the name’s put you off. You need to get over it for two reasons. One is that this is one of the few places in the market that you can actually BOOK. So you needn’t freeze your arse off waiting for a table (although the market’s under cover, it’s still pretty cold in winter). Second the food is sublime - fresh, seasonal and sufficiently local that I once saw the ginger beer man turn up to collect his empties on the back of his bike.

Rosie’s Deli. Cosy and welcoming, it’s the perfect spot to stop off for a bowl of soup, or some mackerel pate on toast, or even one of their homemade cakes.

Franco Manca. I am putting this in not because it’s a personal favourite - whisper it, I do not like pizza all that much - but because everyone I know loves it and they make their own sourdough and if you like that sort of thing, this is very much the sort of thing you will like.

The best part of the market is that, despite all this ritzy gentrification, lots of the old shops still survive, so if you’re in need of some pig lungs and hair extensions you can pick those up at the same time. Result.

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