Three days in London

Just what I need to recharge

It’s 5am on Monday morning and I’m sitting at the kitchen table, my laptop in front of me, typing like my life depends on it. For the past two months, I’ve been on a mission to complete the first draft of my manuscript.

Being a morning person, I’m at my best first thing, so between 5am and 7am, I do my creative work. It’s when I have the most energy and focus, so I’m usually quite productive. Not today, though. No matter how fast I type or how much I try to concentrate, my entire body is heavy with fatigue. All I can think about is how lovely it would be to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep.

Throughout May and June, I’ve not had a morning off. My pace has been relentless and although it’s taking its toll, I push through the tiredness and keep writing. After my morning writing session, I start work for my day job, then later, I meet my niece Olivia and almost fall asleep headfirst into my cup of tea.

‘You need to sleep more,’ she tells me.

‘It’s not that easy,’ I say. ‘I’m on a book deadline. I have to get up early to write.’

‘What time do you go to bed? What time do you get up?’

I tell her, and she does a quick calculation. ‘So, you’re not getting enough sleep every night. You’re sleep deprived.’

‘It’s only until I finish the book.’

‘It’s not good for you.’ Olivia is 13, so very much knows best about anything beauty, style and self-care related, as well as technology, celebrities and other matters of importance. She won’t let it go. She picks up her phone and searches to see what affect my current sleeping patterns are having on my health and life.

‘It’ll damage your heart and circulatory system. It’ll affect your brain and your moods. You’ll get depression. And you’re more likely to die.’

‘Thanks for that, Liv.’

‘Auntie Liz, you should sleep.’

‘I’m in tune with the seasons,’ I say. ‘I don’t need much at this time of year with the long daylight hours.’

Despite my excuses, I know Olivia has a point. I’ve gone beyond tired and am now edging closer to burnout. No one has made me work. This is all down to me and my ambition, putting pressure on myself, demanding a lot and, in all honesty, being a bit ridiculous. I have not followed the hard work, rest and renewal cycle, which under normal circumstances, I absolutely believe in.

Focusing on finishing my manuscript in time for a writing competition (which probably won’t lead to anything) has taken over my life. I’ve neglected my family and friends, my pets, and now it seems, myself.

I justified all of this because writing is important to me. The competition was a chance to win a publishing deal. I had to try. Whenever I felt tired, I’d remind myself that the hard work would be worth it. Whether I made the longlist or not, the effort wouldn’t be wasted because I’d have a finished draft. When I was really struggling, I thought about our upcoming family holiday and told myself I could rest then.

But now, given my current tiredness levels, I’m beginning to doubt I’ll have the strength to get through the next few weeks to make the holiday. Thankfully, Chris and I have booked a few days in London, celebrating our wedding anniversary around me attending The Self-Publishing Show. I leave my laptop at home and promise myself I will rest and recharge.

We take the train from Wakefield Westgate early—but not too early—on Tuesday morning. Train journeys are great for writing time, but today, I close my eyes and sleep most of the way.

At King’s Cross we jump into a taxi to our hotel, but there’s been a fire in the area—the roads are closed, traffic is a nightmare, and the taxi driver is agitated, beeping and swerving in and out of traffic. Once we’re across the river, he puts his foot down, coming just short of setting a national land speed record.

‘We’re here,’ he says, turning off the main road, towards the hotel, which has a driveway leading up to it with its own mini roundabout, and a very grand entrance with assorted shrubbery. It’s like driving up to a country estate but just off the South Bank.

The driver gets out and takes our bags, then makes a quick getaway. A man on the door rushes over to greet us. I didn’t expect this sort of welcome. It’s like they think I’m famous.

‘Have you booked a room or a suite?’ the doorman asks.

I look at Chris, who is scratching his head and staring at the hotel.

‘I don’t think this is our hotel,’ he says.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t think it is.’

It most definitely is not our hotel. This is a five-star luxury hotel, where it’s at least £600 a night. We’re at the Premier Inn (£200 a night), round the corner.

We trudge back down the drive, pulling our cases behind us. ‘I’m not sure what the taxi driver was thinking,’ I say. ‘Perhaps he thought I looked like I should be staying here. It must be my trendy jeans and M&S blazer.’

There is no doorman to greet us at the Premier Inn, just a computer to check in ourselves. We fail at that, so have to buzz for a real person to help.

‘Shouldn’t you be at the posh hotel round the corner?’ I half expect someone to ask, but they don’t.

Once we’re checked in, we leave our bags and head out with no clear plan other than to walk. I love strolling around London, losing myself and my worries in the city where I lived, worked and studied in my late teens and early twenties. I love the buzz, the anonymity, and the nostalgia that I get remembering my former life here.

We walk across Westminster Bridge, down Birdcage Walk into St James’s Park, onto Whitehall, stopping briefly to see the beautiful horses outside Downing Street, before heading towards Covent Garden, where we stop for drinks, sitting outside in the sunshine and people watching. Then we’re back walking again, Charing Cross Road to Foyles, one of my favourite bookshops, before turning towards Cecil Court, a street of independent shops, often described as a ‘book lover’s dream’. We walk and talk and slowly, my tiredness shifts and I start to feel better – more like myself, anyway.

There are handmade chocolates, café stops, a meal to celebrate our anniversary, music from street performers on the South Bank, and time just looking across the river, taking it all in.

The next day, I’m at The Self-Publishing Show, where I meet lots of successful writers (earning enough to stay at the posh hotel) and I realise that by chasing competitions and traditional publishing contracts, I’m at the mercy of other people. I sit and listen to the speakers and wonder why I’ve been waiting for someone else, a publisher or literary agent, to pick me, when I can just choose myself. I can make all my writing dreams happen by going down the self-publishing route.

After the event, feeling inspired and energised, I meet up with Chris and a friend and we have a wonderful evening on the South Bank, followed by a river walk. Crossing the Hungerford Bridge with night falling and Ben Ben striking ten, I feel the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. London has worked its magic.

That night we try to plan the rest of our trip, which we should have done before we arrived and not the day before we leave… Anyway, I fancy the sky garden and the Globe Theatre, but both are fully booked. ‘Why are people so organised?’ I ask. ‘Why can’t they just rock up and hope for the best, like us?’

There’s always the Natural History Museum but then a piece comes on BBC News saying that a new dinosaur has been discovered and is going on display so probably everyone in London who hasn’t booked for the Globe, or the sky garden will be hankering after seeing it.

We abort that plan and instead book an immersive art experience at Marble Arch. We walk and talk some more, throw in some shopping and immerse ourselves in the art, and then it’s time to go. I always leave London with a heavy heart, but at least I’m leaving rested and recharged, keen to get back to my manuscript, not for the writing competition, but for myself.

It’s late when we arrive home. Even later when we get to bed. For a second, I consider getting up at 5am to write but decide against it. Now I’m working to my own deadlines, an extra hour in bed will be nice. My sleep deprived body will thank me.

P.S. I am sorry this piece is so late. We had a drama when my horse cut herself quite badly over the weekend, so my week so far has revolved around wound management. It’s a glamorous life I lead. Anyway, the horse is fine now and I’m catching up. Hope you’re having a good week.

Liz xx

About me: I’m Liz Champion, a writer from Yorkshire, trying to find time to sleep around my writing.