My husband asked me the other day if I’d started writing my novel yet. I answered yes, and incidentally, this is true – I’ve taken a couple of opportunities lately in waiting rooms or on the bus to write. Of course, the next question was: “What’s it about?” And it’s a good question.

I knew the answer, but would I tell him? I’d already thought about this a bit, since posting the progress of my novel on this blog has made me think about whether I’d post any excerpts from the writing along the way: and I’d decided the answer to that was no. I’d rather people could read it fresh, without any expectations. And, I’m scared, too, of getting strange reactions along the way, of people knowing what’s going on in the deepest parts of my mind.

“No problem, I understand,” was my husband’s reaction. And he did. He’s an artist (when he’s not an engineer) – our walls are full of his magnificent oil paintings – and he understands that creativity sometimes needs to remain private. It’s nice to feel that support without feeling I have to show him any evidence of what I’m doing – until it’s in the bookshops, of course!