Books Don’t Get Written By Doing Housework!

I looked around the kitchen and immediately chose to go out to the porch and spend some time writing. Housework can wait, I told myself.

Outside, my porch offers the perfect sanctuary. As I sit with my laptop, I am surrounded by a vibrant, living canvas: bird baths bustling with activity, bees and butterflies dancing through the herbs, and the lush green of raspberry canes and blueberry bushes. Beyond them stand the cherry and apple trees under a brilliant blue sky, whilst my black cats lounge nearby, keeping me quiet company. It is a space designed for flow.

I thought of a dear friend whose home is immaculate. Her skirting boards are flawless; her windows gleam with a brilliance that suggests a personal pact with the Sun. Then, I reminded myself: she’s not a writer. My friend doesn’t have a chorus of ideas clamouring inside her head, demanding to be captured whilst the air is warm and the light is perfect. I didn’t get to write more than thirty books by doing housework. If my literary output relied on my enthusiasm for dusting, my bibliography would consist of a single, unfinished pamphlet. In fact, I don’t think I even own a duster! That tells you everything you need to know about me. 

Thankfully, the dishes don’t actually pile up to the ceiling in our house, but that is zero credit to me. That is entirely down to Paul. Whilst I am sitting out here typing away at a brisk and joyful pace, Paul is actively handling the domestic tide including being a reliable resident barista. Paul is the unsung hero of my publishing journey, the guardian of the kitchen sink. Whenever he catches me eyeing a bottle of surface spray and the slight under-my-breath groan, he delivers his familiar, life-saving mantra: “Go and write. Leave the housework.” Trust me, my friends, this is advice every author needs to hear.

The temptation to let chores dictate our schedule is a constant hurdle for many. It is easy to fall into the trap of thinking we must clear the physical decks before we can permit ourselves to create. We trick ourselves into believing that a pristine environment is a mandatory prerequisite for sitting down to work. In reality, the domestic routine simply loves to steal our time and demands attention for the mundane whilst simultaneously keeping us away from our true calling. If I had waited for every room to be perfect before diving into my next project, those thirty-plus books would still be trapped inside my imagination. Instead, they are out in the world, bound and printed, because I learned the fine art of tactical blindness. Thank goodness, given there are at least another ten books in various states of process and progress.

I can look directly at a basket of laundry waiting to be folded or hung up in the wardrobe, acknowledge its existence, and calmly walk away to bring a new book to life. Creativity requires robust boundary-setting. To listen to the muse demands that we prioritise the permanent joy of writing over the temporary satisfaction of a vacuumed rug. The dust, after all, is patient. And dust, as it happens, always finds a way to settle again by the next morning. But a wave of inspiration is a gift for the present moment; if you ignore it to go and clean the bathroom tiles, you miss the joy of the flow.

So, to my fellow writers (or other creatives) drowning in domestic guilt: step away from the mop. If you are blessed with a Paul, thank them profusely and head straight for your writing desk or studio. If you aren’t, let the dust bunnies form a colony under the sofa for a few weeks. Your readers will never care if your house was spotless, but they will care deeply about the story you chose to tell. Turn your back on the cleaning, head out to your porch, and go write your book.