Writing and resilience: how can we keep creating (and enjoy it)?


A pulse of migrating birds is sewing the sky. The day is fresh and clear, trees moving conversationally. I know I should be writing but there are other things to do. Besides, I’m stuck. The last chapter I wrote left no way of moving forward. Can’t I just clean the oven?

For a seated activity, writing carries a lot of challenges. First off there is not writing.

It’s all well and good to say, ‘I’m not inspired, I’ll take a break for an hour or five,’ before you realise you have an imagination with nothing to tether itself to, crowds of words backed up in the brain like traffic on the Sultan Qaboos Road. And, as we know, the thing will not write itself.

But doing the writing is risky too.

You could offend a friend. Or reach for the truth and hit a cliché. Or the time you think up something so spot on, you even make yourself cry. Writing is a risk because it asks you to go inside and take a look around.

The perils of writing were far from my mind at a dance/exercise class I attended a few days ago. The music was loud and Latin, my companions Omani, Zanzibari women in their twenties, all plugged in to the often complicated moves.

But something was different this week. New faces? A different soundtrack? Actually a seven year old girl in the front row, following the routines along with the rest of us. She wore wraparound specs, sneakers she was clearly growing into and her face was a butterfly of unbridled joy. Undaunted by turning up to a class of adult women and joining in, the girl did more than follow the routines. She danced.

What made the class, for her, so simple? And how might it help with my writing challenges?

I could see the activity mattered more to her than the mirror of her peers. She was enjoying the sequences more than she feared any kind of ‘failure’ or embarrassment. Passion as artistic fuel becomes a pot of gold inside, where doing the thing itself is the ultimate reward.

The writer and entrepreneur Joanna Penn describes the early days of her writing as a time when she would frequently ‘self-censor.’ It’s easy to get caught up in worries about words which might offend, but what is lost when we remove the liveliness of our tone? Pairing down our writing to please an invisible critic is like trying to wear someone else’s clothes. I thought of the girl in the exercise class who moved so freely,  was so un-self-conscious. What if as adults we applied this attitude to our creative work?

In Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art he calls the unwillingness to engage with our own writing, Resistance. That feeling of ‘Do I have to?’ can be hard to overcome. Questions I ask myself when I’d suddenly rather be cleaning the oven:

  • What am I avoiding? Is it a difficult scene? Is there a skill I need to learn/information to research before I go back to it? Could I begin somewhere else?
  • How can I support my attention span when I find myself drifting onto Facebook or that holiday website? Rather than telling myself off (which will likely send my creativity into a corner), could I work with the Internet?

A trick that may sound strange but worked for me a few weeks back was: 10 minutes writing, 10 minutes online. Repeat ad infinitum. You’d be surprised how many words you’ll produce when time is limited. And how quickly 10 minutes writing becomes an hour once the idea has taken hold.

  • When I was working on Draft 1 of my novel I used to start the day by reading everything I had written so far before I continued. When your words have reached the thousands it can become quite time consuming so I stopped!

But these days I still look back at the work from the day before. This gets me into the world of the story.I become interested in the place. Care about what’s happening, the characters, their plans and before I know it, I want to add to it. It’s a kind of conscious seduction. The more we see a person, thing or place, the more invested we become. If I can get myself involved in the story’s world, I know the fire will ignite to light the fuel of my commitment.

‘How can I fall in love with what I’m doing?’ is probably the most important question I ask myself each day. It’s the easiest way to ensure I walk to my desk every morning, open the document and stay there till the work is done.

Writers how do you keep yourself writing regularly? Your comments, as always, are welcome below. 

Four restaurants and a supermarket: Gluten free in Muscat, Oman


There are many things I love about this city. The beach is wild and accessible, the chilled-ness of the society remarkable. I  enjoy the Omani traditions via my in-laws; there is something deeply grounding about the rituals of birth, death, marriage, Gulf hospitality. Walking through a shopping mall, if we bump into a friend or even the friend of a friend, the initial greeting can last for days.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, alhamdulillah (thanks be to God),’


‘Fine, alhamdulillah. How’s your health?’

‘Alhamdulillah, it’s fine. And yours? How is your family? The little ones?’

‘They are well, alhamdulillah. How are your parents? How’s the community….’

And so on. While the acquaintances shake hands in an extended hello.

Oman has many cafes, some fabulous wildlife and good hotels but I have found a certain part of life less straightforward.

We have a kind of Waitrose supermarket or at least products from the brand, but the support of clear packaging or restaurants catering for specific dietary needs is not yet ingrained. Those of you who read my post some months ago will know that following a period of poor health, I discovered that the cause was gluten. I now have to be very strict food-wise in order to avoid an immune reaction.

It’s great to cook at home but there comes a point when hiding from restaurants in case of cross contamination becomes disheartening. So I have tried out some places to eat, wearing my gluten (and dairy)-free goggles, the results of which I will share below:

Patisserie Paul


We treat this place like our local and go a lot (although the drive there is far). Paul have two outlets in Muscat, both in malls but the Bowshar version has an outdoor balcony area filled with those who like fresh air alongside those who smoke cigars (!) The space is big enough to avoid the fumes if you are determined.

What I like 

The food is simple and well-cooked. Staff are fully trained in food intolerances. They ask the kitchen to adapt dishes. They will list ingredients in a dish. All with friendliness and understanding. The food is often special diet friendly and it’s fairly clear what is in each meal from the menu listing and photos.

What I’d like

Paul‘s cakes are what draw most people to the place but not a millefeuille, tarte aux pommes or macaron is gluten free. They do wheatless bread (which I haven’t tried). Maybe there’s not yet a market in Muscat, who knows, but watching my mealtime companions dig in to luscious patisserie cream is occasionally too much… So yes, some gluten-free patisserie please!

The Chedi


The Chedi is not cheap but it’s beautiful. A hotel set back from the residential area of Azaiba, it’s a local design classic and the level of attention to detail in the food matches its interior. There are a number of restaurants within the hotel to choose from. Here I refer to ‘The Restaurant’.

What I like

The menu draws influences from around the world and is organised as such. Sushi is often a safe bet and is here aplenty. The fish is not cooked in flour so is definitely a go-er. I have particularly enjoyed the raw dishes such as carpaccio, tartare etc… There is an extremely high level of personalised service at the Chedi; the staff here are fantastic when it comes to knowledge of what they are selling/serving, and again the kitchen is able to adapt. There is a lot to choose from, cooked to perfection. I cannot fault my experience at The Chedi and would happily spend ever weekend here…

What I’d like

About one percent of people have Coeliac but roughly one in every fifteen people have some degree of gluten sensitivity (even symptom free, this can cause long term health problems). Sometimes the body can not process dairy foods either until significant healing has taken place. Gluten free and dairy free desserts at The Chedi would be lovely. I had a mango sorbet which was nice but it was my only possible choice.

Chez Sushi


The Chez Sushi I’ve tried is at The Wave, a residential area near to the airport. Chez Sushi is the kind of place where you might grab some rolls or sashimi as takeaway or eat at one of the tables outside on your way to something else. It’s good value, fresh and fast.

What I like 

Staff speak with confidence about what the kitchen is doing. You can build your own rolls, choosing white or brown rice, various vegetables, fish etc… Part of the issue of food intolerance is trust that what is in front of you is safe to eat. Here there is absolute transparency around ingredients and really yummy food!

What I’d like

A variety of menu listed rolls which are specified gluten free. Fresh juices.

Mumtaz Mahal


If you want to see a panoramic view of Muscat, this is your spot. Perched on a high point in Qurum, this North Indian restaurant has some unique dishes and warm service. A good bet for those with food intolerances as the dishes are so tasty and varied. Great for a celebration.

What I like 

The staff are really kind. There is a small sign on the menu about special diets inviting the customer to ask about the dishes (which of course I did!) The waiter wrote down a list of choices took them to the kitchen and returned saying delightedly that all were gluten free. The food I ate was delicious and did not, indeed, cause any health issues, but I was, I think very cautious in my eating despite the waiter’s assurance. (Sauces can be a source of stress as even things like ketchup contain gluten and the results of a mistake can last for days.) Next time I will be bolder as the taste is well worth it, and the staff’s recommendations reliable.

What I’d like

Clear signs on the menu to indicate which dishes are/aren’t gluten and dairy free to save the waiter the back and forth.

Carrefour (the one in Qurum)



So this is the wild card of the bunch as it’s not a restaurant but a shop. Finding a section in a store in this city where food is labelled free-from is like chancing across Aladdin’s cave.

Carrefour in Qurum have a ‘bio’ (organic) section near the confectionery and also one within the fruit and veg area. It’s not huge but there are some useful store cupboard ingredients such as fruit juices (which can otherwise contain gluten), rice cakes, gluten free biscuits if that’s your thing, tahina, nut butters and so on. Al Fair on 18th November Street also has some free-from products but they are not limited to one section so you’d need to spend some time in the shop tracking them down.

I have been happily surprised on my mission to eat outside the home in Muscat while following a needfully strict diet and will continue to do so and report back if you are interested to hear more.

I would love to read any observations (below) from other Muscat-eers on eating out/special diets if you feel so inclined and also any restaurant recommendations…



‘Take your broken heart…’ What happens when tears fuel art


The most common question people ask when I tell them I’m writing a book is:

‘What’s it about?’

So I say:

A journalist goes to Madrid and discovers that the death of a celebrity is not what it seems.

‘But what’s it really about?’ The bookish or the curious inquire.

Trying to describe a deeper ‘Story’ is much harder. Like hinting at the essence of a song.

‘It’s a Mystery. With some thriller turns.’ doesn’t really do it, for a novel’s ‘big idea’ is something like its soul. Hard to put into words.

Last week a relative asked me the same question. I managed, in the end, to share the idea.

‘My book, I hope, will be about mourning.’

Dear reader, before you close this page, run out the room or start yawning, there will -fear not – be a plot.

But what I had in mind, beneath the action, is this:

It’s about what happens when we don’t grieve our losses – not just of loved ones – but the smaller deaths of everyday: disappointments, old resentments, pains, misunderstandings. How something softens when we allow ourselves to cry, the walls inside come down. And generation by generation there may be no progress until we fully mourn the difficulties of our own – and collective – past. 

Sadness is not fashionable. Public crying in Western culture is still taboo. Last year I spent some time in the UK and I remember speaking on the phone while sitting in a cafe, with tears streaming down my face. My sadness was soundless but the couple on the sofa in front of me stood up like they’d sat on a scorpion. They balanced their newspapers and their lattes, awkwardness seeping from their brows, and legged it.

The idea of facing and feeling sorrow can frighten folk, but I like to think of our histories – however wonderful or painful (often both)- as a hidden alchemy.

Much of the time it stays buried, beneath our habits and opinions. It lodges with the child we left behind. But when acknowledged and used right, it can change lives. The Midas touch of tears has the power to transform past pain into the greatest art on earth.

During his long and creative life, the German composer JS Bach suffered loss on almost a permanent basis. Both parents died when he was young, then an older brother. And in 1721, his other brother, the one who had brought him up, fell ill and passed away.

His beloved wife Maria followed, leaving him with many young children.

What did Bach do?

He wrote the Goldberg variations. A language through which he felt and shared life’s joy and pain. A vehicle for his grief.

The novels of Thomas Hardy are not for the fainthearted but read his poetry and you’ll meet a different man. In his ‘Poems 1912-13’ on the death of his wife Emma Gifford, it’s Hardy’s tears which touch the reader.

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me

Saying that now you are not as you were

When you had changed from the one who was all to me,

But as at first when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then… From The Voice, by Thomas Hardy, December 1912

Grief has many guises. It is said that the Prophet of Islam would often walk with his face moist, that he cried easily. Babies and children don’t need to be told to let it out when they feel pain.

But what about men and women? I wonder what would happen if crying became not only socially acceptable but encouraged. After all, laughing is, so why not its watery cousin? How cleansed we might feel from our collective past. How avoidable the repetitions, addictions, tyrannies borne of buried grief.

Trapped unconscious energy makes us bend into weird shapes which aren’t who we are at all. In the world it burns bridges, fuels wars, builds walls so wide we cannot see each other anymore. We cannot see ourselves.

When traumatised holocaust survivors formed the state of Israel, successive governments unconsciously began the re-enactment  of a torture that they, or their parents had endured in 1930/40s Europe. The persecution of their fellow land-dwellers continues to this day because the personal work of the traumatised, the act of mourning has not properly taken place.

At the recent golden globes, Meryl Streep spoke about the tragedy for the Arts in the United States that is the new president. But fully mourning such ill-fortune could transform it to something else. It was her friend, Carrie Fisher who said :

‘Take your broken heart, turn it into art,’

Art could mean anything here: work, energy, scientific endeavour but it’s the process between the broken heart and it’s product that matters. It’s the very act of crying that opens the floodgates to renewal. The river which may take us – and those with us – to a very different place.


How are you nurturing your creative mind?


Some months ago, after the holiday of Eid, my brother-in-law went away on a trip and my mother-in-law (who shares the building with him) stayed home. Omani culture likes to swathe ageing parents with visits and chat, and so my husband and I moved into her house for two nights.

I awoke on the first day feeling like it was a holiday. Sunlight poured through an unfamiliar curtain. The smells of morning were fresh paint, cleaning products, Eid desserts on a trolley.

A break from life’s routines.

People talk and write of ‘beginner’s mind,’. Something like this it felt. As though I had stepped out of habit and into a fresh reality to learn.

I don’t know what happens to brain cells when they are shown new places but it can feel, I think, like the opening of a parachute. The plodding walk of everyday takes flight, as though the mind has had to lift to learn what’s new and taken the whole self with it.

Beginner’s mind can be a tool for imagination.  Free from memory, there is the chance to test ideas, break rules, find untapped resource. So I have been asking myself how it might be used in the service of creativity:

  • go for a walk most days . But a walk with beginner’s mind awakened, as the M&S advert goes, is not just any walk. It’s headed somewhere new. With music, without sound, listening to the birds, taking a path up and off the normal track. Trying new things so the body and brain might enter a free space, to flick the switch which says experiment.
  • Travel can have the same effect. Finding new cafes, shops, spaces, meeting new people can also do the trick. Shaking the brain cells out of their collective habits. Sometimes really focusing on another person’s way of seeing the world can cultivate beginner’s mind for me. It too is a brand new place.
  • ‘Habit is the great deadener’ said Samuel Beckett. Certain routines are unavoidable, but I have found removing the ones which clutter the mind can create freedom. Habits which are relatively easy to quit and whose pay off I have found to be big in terms of mental space: Mindless phone/Twitter/Facebook scrolling, googling too much, saying Yes to things I don’t want to do. All of these can clog creative energy.
  • Taking photos brings in the here and now. A camera (or phone camera) can be a physical reminder to be present, to notice.
  • Trying new recipes has been for me one of the simplest ways to access beginner’s mind. The faith required to follow new instructions (or invent one’s own) can create tangible – often edible – results (!) and it’s a great break from writing.

We had barely driven for twenty minutes, stayed away 48 hours when I left my mother-in-law’s house with renewed purpose. Beginner’s mind is powerful, so open that ideas can’t help but wander in.

How do you nurture your mind to stay creative?

The treat of a broadsheet: how I became a fan and forgot about fiction


Oman has a vibe so chilled, I sometimes have to ask myself if I’m awake or asleep. It’s strange because the media portrays the Middle East as a war zone (and of course some parts of it are) but this place is about as warlike as a flotation tank.

Driving home from the gym, I yearn to take a photo. In the time between 5 and 6.30 the sky turns yellow, then a deep red. At the time of day they call, in Arabic, Maghrib, the air stills, a sense of expectation hovers and then, very quickly, the sun is gone.

This said, like for all foreigners in another land, certain parts of living here are hard to swallow. These complaints are usually swapped, like wrapped boiled sweets, with a friend who feels the same. We confine our grumbles to a car journey and then invariably perk up.

In Muscat, it is easier, for example, to buy frankincense than an envelope.  Trying to send something to England last week I had, in the end, to put the letter in a jiffy bag. It was that or hijack a Hallmark Valentine’s card for it’s scarlet covering.


As for anything bookish or or paper-based, forget it. The malls here sell sugar and abayas and scent. Sometimes they set up book fairs for kids beneath the shopping centre escalators and I want to simultaneously cheer and cry. The reading revolution in Oman will happen, I reckon, through its children, but not while the stalls are still screaming 1970.

So it was with surprise one day that I found my favourite weekend newspaper tucked away in an ex-pat part of town. It was still crisp, a familiar peachy-colour. There were only two copies which somehow made the drive worthwhile. I looked one way then the other, and grabbed it fast before Muscat’s two other FT fans could elbow me aside. I could barely wait to get it home.

I had been reading the FT weekend since I moved to London in my twenties. A glamorous friend leafing through it at my kitchen table, said: ‘If you like good writing, this is the thing.’ 

A weekend treat and ritual it became. Whatever troubled my working week could always be overcome with an FT on the horizon. Following the thread of every editorial, I bored my friends and family with its merits.

One particular column had grabbed my eyes. The columnist, Susie Boyt took every day normality and imbued it with intricate meaning. She wrote of cakes and show tunes and disappointment. She described the space between the way we’d like to be and who we really are.


She had once upon a time written a book about Judy Garland where she revealed her lifelong love of the former child star. I realised then that I had become the fan of a fan. Like being at the end of a conga or an endless hall of mirrors. To invest such joy in a person you’ve never met holds a certain kind of light. So easy to admire a stranger, we see the best bits, of them, of ourselves, the soaring of their art.

Yesterday I found a slice of the FT Weekend from 2011 stuck into a scrapbook. The column was called ‘In the mood for medicocrity’. Susie Boyt wrote:

‘In a crisis, the second-rate has a great deal going for it. You need porridge, light grey clothes, repeats of comedy shows where you can say the lines along with the characters. When Jane Austen and the first blossom seem almost more visceral than you can take, caution is everything. People you quite like are possibly more use than people you are crazy about. When you need catharsis, reread Herzog, listen to Bach; but when it’s distraction that you want, something lower middle-brow (the back of a Cheerios box, even), can be comforting in the extreme. Read it slowly, memorise it even, but do try not to think too much, or you’ll be sunk.’

‘In the mood for medicocrity’ Susie Boyt, Financial Times, April 2/3 2011

Like the very best in literature, her column opened doors to places I thought that only I had seen. Reading her words each week, it became okay to not always feel okay. Her self deprecating one-liners snuck up on you until you couldn’t help but smile.

But when I got my copy home last week, and opened the Life and Arts section, the room went dark. For inside it said that Susie Boyt was packing up her FT pen. No longer would she grace the salmon pages. I would have to make do with her colleagues. Sure I liked their work. Of course I did. It just, well it wasn’t the same.

Fanhood is a fabulous thing. Projection of the most flattering kind. It’s easy to read the work of a person you have never met and think that you are truly privy to their life.

The same is true of a country you’ve only been to on holiday. ‘Live with someone to know them,’ my grandmother used to say. Before I moved to Oman, I visited for a week. Saw sunsets, moon-like mountains. I bought frankincense and bottles of Oud. We visited a village with a waterfall where a tree-frog yelped like a dog.

I didn’t try to buy an envelope.

I didn’t know that there are campaigns to encourage Omani children to read for fun, as well as at school. That it may take decades but slowly, this country is returning to its bookish roots.

I thought imagination was so close to truth that it might just make a steady substitute. But there’s nothing like the dust of life . No replacement for the grit and grind of everyday, its comforting refrain.

And heroes are sometimes best left where you saw them last, swerving on the football field, pirouetting on a stage. Framed by a column that in six years of weekly delight may well have inspired you to start to write.


Susie Boyt’s next novel: Love & Fame will come out in the autumn.

Sky high in Dubai: reflections on a Marmite town


I never thought I’d love Dubai. But the first time I went I was curious. Years ago I had been staying close by but never made it. And now, living in Muscat, Dubai is our London. It sings a show tune across the mountains. How could we resist?

We reached the city late. Sand ghosts crossed the motorways, a reminder of what lay beneath. Towers lumbered, concrete dinosaurs. We saw swimming pools balanced on rooftops. The breeze blew our gaze across the most competitive skyline in the world. Tallest, Highest, One of a kind. A ski slope in the desert.

Dubai is the Middle East’s Marmite; visitors like and loathe in equal measure.

The city is a mimic. Big Ben’s replica stands like a gift from a cracker. New York’s Chrysler juts to the sky nearby. A post-modernist mickey take?  Or maybe all these buildings are just a loving tribute to the old metropolises of the world.

A giant Duty Free curated to entice. Dubai. Where they opened up the box of What Was Possible, used cash, brains, shiny western toys…I wonder, if like a cat, the city herself is secretly laughing into her whiskers.

What would Sheikh Zayed make of it? He who put the first stones in the sand, as progress spoke to him in easy signs. Did he, could he, guess at what would come?

A single road he built, across the swathes of desert dust. Need, no more to swat away the flies, the sand became not home but holiday. While Europeans wore flares and Beatlemania was almost passé, a desert rose was rising from the dunes, nurtured by  the leader, Zayed’s hand.

The city’s soundtrack is technology’s hum. Its people, visual chess pieces robed in black or white: uncommon doves, giant eyelashes fluttering like jazz hands.

We dine at the top of the tallest tower. The elevator rocks as the floors reach into the 100s. The staff guide us around a building shaped like a needle.  There is no pat down here, no airport style security.  I try to ban the zeitgeist from my mind.

The world has changed since Zayed built the UAE. I want to ask him what he thinks. Say that wars are fought on ground no more, but ideologically, illogically by computer grid, rocket, splinter group, so many hidden interests, when most are pleased with peace.


The building sways a touch. We focus on the menu. I shake a little like the tower, see swathes of lights across a sea of navy blue. Planes pass the building at our level. Horrified. Exhilarated. What were they thinking these architects?

Before leaving the city I hope to buy a lipstick.  Three people rush to help before I’ve even reached the counter. By the rack of plums and pinks I’m offered water, juice, ‘Shall I take your bags?’ Led to the counter as though I’m the only customer in the shop.  ‘This one looks nice,’ she holds out a brownish nude. I agree, head for the tills, ‘Special price, today,’ she smiles for commerce here is art.

Zayed was a reformer, a visionary who advocated dialogue above arms. In the second half of the twentieth century he brought schools, hospitals, basic infrastructure to a diseased people and harsh climate.

What would he say to Dubai’s commercialism, her bare faced architectural cheek? My guess is that were Zayed here today, he’d see the city’s skyline and he’d smile. Dubai innovates with flair, a whim in a world too filled with frowns. A city state of swaggering imitation, while at the same time, tongue-in-cheek unique.


Have you been to Dubai? What’s your ‘Marmite’ take on it?

Story-writing, science and the grace of flight


I started writing poems when I was twelve. Messages to myself, which aided, in the end, with adolescence. I would never, I vowed, show a soul and no one asked about them because nobody knew.

At university I saw the scribbled comments of a teacher on a set of poems and felt a rush of hope. He didn’t understand what I wanted to say, he wrote, but they seemed to be ‘about something’.

I didn’t know, then, that the reader sits strapped in and the ‘something you want to say’ is their experience. That writers open up doors inside so the reader may step in and find themselves there too.

I didn’t get this until I met the novelist, Jennifer Clement in Mexico who wrote stories like paintings. Every scene was a frame of colour, of life and I wanted to move inside her book, to live there indefinitely.

I thought it was art. All of it. I thought it spilled out like blood from a wound, that a writer was opening up their soul and that the gold of their literature came directly from the fabric of their cells.

A decade later I don’t think it works like this. I found this out when I started writing a book of my own and saw the blood spilling, the canvass spoiled. For writing is a construction, closer to science or engineering than a kind of formless art.

It has, I think, as much in common with flight as artistic expression.

An aircraft is built to do a job, just as the plot of a novel is (usually) planned to allow a story to be told. The runway allows the machine to gain momentum, like plot points propelling a story forward.

When the airplane reaches cruising height, the story has taken flight and the readers or passengers are there for the long haul. If the thing has been built right it will keep itself propelled until the end. The landing is of course, the ending and readers, like passengers want a good one.

There are functional, physical facts which keep a plane flying. After coming to a standstill with my own novel and reading a lot of writing guides, I discovered that there is a system too in the building of a novel. Points in the plot when certain things should happen, like the flaps of an airplane moving to allow or suppress lift.

The parts a novel needs to fly can be numbered and maintained, that following these rules doesn’t guarantee a brilliant piece of work, just as keeping a plane in good condition will not make for a perfect flight, but it helps get it off the ground.

And in the end, beyond the engineering, a great novel has the elegance of flight, that grace which makes the reader wonder: How did that just happen? Part science part serendipity, something has taken place, something has moved.

What do you think makes a great novel? Writers, what helps you structure? Please feel free to comment below.