Shedless still I prattle: N M Browne
The image of the writer tends to be that of the solitary genius. Maybe George Bernard Shaw springs to mind in his shed that moved to follow the sun? These embodied stereotypes are often male, hard drinking, melancholic and usually gifted in ways that sets them apart from lesser mortals: excuses are made for horrible behaviour, faults are fondly reframed as idiosyncrasies. As a female writer, who is not a solitary genius, or indeed a genius at all, I am prone to wondering (usually when I should be writing) if this stereotype holds me back. My red wine intake is perhaps a little too high but I’m generally an optimistic soul and my idiosyncrasies are all reframed as faults. When we write it is just us and the words on the page, but I don’t know if that makes the experience unique or even that solitary. We are often not alone in person. Writers I know write in coffee shops, on kitchen tables around the detritus of family life, on packed trains an...