The waiting was harder than the writing. I worried about all kinds of things, the sheer number of unknowns were high-calorie food for my anxiety demons. What if I discovered I didn’t like writing collaboratively? What if the story preceding mine had no character that I wanted to work with? What if the editors hated my story? And so on. Worry, rinse, repeat.

Luckily for me, the stars were in alignment and the last four days of my ten day writing slot fell at the beginning of the first proper holiday I’ve taken in years. I decided to pick the character, and then not worry about it until I was in a holiday cottage in Devon with my family.

I picked one of the most minor characters; a homeless man that tries to give a girl a blanket. That gesture fascinated me. In freezing conditions, why did that man show such kindness? For me, whenever there is a ‘why?’ there is a story…

I’ve learnt to trust my unconscious mind when it comes to short stories. By the time it was my turn to write, my Short Story Club was in its second month. Thanks to the Club, and to a documentary I had seen a couple of years ago, I had a theme bubbling away in the depths, just waiting for the right opportunity to surface. I thought the idea through, did a little research and then sat down to write.

There are two important components of my newly developed short story writing ritual: tea and permission. The need for tea is, well, obvious. The permission thing? Well, I say to myself (out loud) “You have complete permission to write utter crap.”

It sounds silly when I tell you this, but it tells the dreaded Censor to just go away and bug someone else for a while. It enables me to relax, to give up the need for perfection (I’m a recovering perfectionist you see) and just get down to the writing. The story takes care of itself, once I get out of the way, and it was true for Heartache. The first draft was written in ninety minutes. I let it simmer for a couple of days, edited it and sent it in. In such a tight window, there isn’t time to let doubt seep in.

I wish I could say that I agonised over it, that I sweated blood to make the story for you, but I can’t. Once I knew why my protagonist was homeless, and how his relationship with his son worked, they just got on and told the story for me. I just watched them in my head and wrote it down. So if you like the story, you should think kindly of them. I was just the humble scribe.