So, 2010 has begun and with it the return to reality. I’m already missing the joyful limbo-days of Christmas. As a freelancer, it’s the only time of year when I feel truly in sync with the rest of the world, as regularly 9-5.30s are forgotten and hours are suddenly rudderless and whim-focused.

In fact, it was pure heaven, with daylight hours devoted to long country walks and dusk-onwards to lounging by my parents open fireplace, tap-tapping away at my first event theatre-script. The fact my parents don’t have wifi was an unexpected delight, setting me free to concentrate on fiction writing without the distractions of emails, twitter, facebook and, um, EssentialWriters.com.

Once I returned home, the internet did holler for attention once more, but even then, with most media offices closed until yesterday, there was little to disturb my happy creativity.

I also managed to make three trips to the cinema in little over a week, and saw three excellent, very different, films.

The first was Nowhere Boy, the John Lennon story which could have been about any young lad with dreams of being a rock star. Sam Taylor-Wood’s vision of John was both beautiful and very real, and while she steered clear of too much Beatle-mania, the hints of what was to come gave the story a hint of a rosy ending without the Hollywood sheen that could so easily have tarnished the whole affair.

The second film was Where the Wild Things Are, a raucous reimagining of the children’s book by Maurice Sendak. With Dave Eggers and Spike Jonze taking the few words provided bySendak and transforming it into a full-length screenplay, the evocative pictures I remember from my childhood took on life and emotions.

Max, played by the fabulously named Max Records, is a desperately unhappy child dealing with the break up of his family, who runs away one night and breaks all kinds of health and safety rules by sailing off on a lake that transforms into a sea and washes him up on an unfamiliar shore. There he encounters a tribe of disconsolate monsters who make him their king on the proviso that he makes their sadness go away. It’s deeply moving, and definitely not one for kids.

The third film was James Cameron’s Avatar, which I was unsure about seeing, having heard that the storyline was beyond daft. However, the visual affects, aided by 3D glasses, are incredible, and to be honest I would have been happy to spend three hours simply exploring the planet of Pandora without a single event or story-arc.

The world imagined by James Cameron and created by Weta is beautiful, brutal, and utterly encompassing. Seen through the eyes of marine Jake Sully, it becomes even more astonishing as he knows no more than we do about the creatures and plants that surround him. Yes, there’s a bit of a mushy love-story, some tree-hugging stuff and lots of explosions, but really, for me, the planet itself is the attraction.

But now, sadly, it’s time to get back to reality, take off the 3D glasses and do some work.

© Zsuzsanna Kilián

My sister, as you might recall, is due to give birth soon. Like me, she is diabetic, one of the affects of which is that the baby is prone to growing really big during the final trimester - no one knows why, but it’s really not helpful! Recently the babe, who I’ve nicknamed Badger Bulldog, achieved seven weeks worth of growth in just three weeks, which was pretty impressive, not to mention terrifying.

Thankfully he’s since slowed down, and a few days ago he reached what the docs refer to as full-term. In other words, though it was still three weeks before his due date, he’d developed enough to handle life outside the womb. Well, physically, anyway. I know a few adults who might still be better off in there emotionally, space permitting.

This all means that diabetic mums-to-be usually end up having their babies medically induced, and this is the case with my sister. So, Badger Bulldog is scheduled to make his debut in less than a week’s time.

My sis is making the most of her last few days of freedom. As far as I can tell, that has less to do with putting her swollen feet up ad resting than buzzing around town seeing as many f her friends as possible.

I can understand why. It must be like standing at the border to a country you’ve never visited before, and not knowing when, or if, the border guards are going to let you come back home again. She’s about to start a brand new adventure that will change her life more than I, or she, can comprehend.

It made sense to take the opportunity to spend some time together before BB arrives, so I suggested meeting for a coffee. In turn, she suggested an afternoon of indulgence at Hotel Chocolat. How could I disagree?

The first time I heard about Hotel Chocolat, I imagined a calorie-laden version of the ice hotel in the James Bond movie Day Another Day - just as likely to melt in the sunshine, but with far messier, stickier consequences.

Actually, it’s more like an upmarket Thorntons crossed with a teashop, which may not seem like the most obvious choice for a pair of diabetics, but contrary to popular myth diabetics can eat whatever they like, providing they take the insulin to counteract it.

We did our blood tests, decided how many units to inject, and got stuck in. The walk into town had made my levels drop right down anyway, so the chocolate was almost a medical necessity - well, that’s my excuse!

The choc shop oozes a sense of decadence. The glorious aroma of the wares fills the air, while shelves display goodies as exquisite as jewels. Chairs and tables dot the room at discreet intervals, but we opted for the sofas for full-on comfort, and nestled there supping do thick, intensely rich chocolate milkshakes.

By the time we’d made our way through the moorish gloop, Badger Bulldog was having a thorough squirm, sending ripples across my sister’s taut belly. The next time I see him, he’ll be a small person rather than a bump, and I can’t wait to meet him.

© www.sxc.hu

After spending the past month freelancing for a triathlon magazine, I’m back to working from home.

I’m always amazed by how quickly I adjust to working in different environments. After weeks of working in my living room, I suddenly had to catch a train each day and commute to an office, spend a set number of hours in front of a computer and head home again.

The strange thing was, I really liked it. I liked the rhythm it gave my days, I liked being surrounded by writers, editor and designers. I liked belonging to a place, if only tenuously. And when I got home, my working day was mostly finished – I could cook dinner, watch TV and spend time with my friends like a normal person.

Then on Tuesday that stint ended and my life resumed it’s normal pattern. I still get up early, but instead of rushing out of the door I have a more leisurely start before settling down to a day of writing, researching, pitching and meeting people. And I like this version of my life too.

My days are more organised, I think, then when I first became a freelancer, but they’re still more flexible than when I’m in an office, with the proviso being that if I don’t get as much done as I’d like during the week I sacrifice an hour on so on the weekend to catch up.

I still have deadlines and goals to meet, and more than ever I’m trying to keep things running smoothly so that I have a constant, comfortable flow of work rather than pockets of empty time followed by pockets where every moment is crammed to bursting.

I think working in an office from time to time is good for me – it refocuses me by giving me less time to work on my own writing, so that when I have that time handed back to me I’m keen to crack on.

This is certainly not what other people think of when you mention you work from home. Like anyone else I get up each day, get showered, dressed, and begin work. I just happen to do it in my living room, or in my bedroom, or, occasionally, sitting on the stairs between the two. If the weather’s nice, I might even head outside with my laptop.

But I do work, and longer hours than most people I know. The main difference is that I enjoy the work I do.

© Sanja Gjenero

I’m feeling very creative today. It’s a fabulous feeling. I feel happy and positive – possibly because we’ve been enjoying some marginally warmer weather that almost makes me think Spring is here.

In addition to that, it’s my husband’s birthday this week, and mine next week, so this fortnight, as it is every year, is a whirl of good things – presents, parties and lots of cake.

There’s also the fact that I have some money coming in at the moment, so the immediate concerns of rent and bills are taken care of.

I have commissions from three publications, plus I’m in the middle of a six-week booking sub-editing a magazine, and it’s just been extended by another week, so hurrah!

All these pockets of joy are adding up to a fertile imagination, and I think I’ve finally sussed a few of the problems with my novel that may have prompted the agent to turn it down.

So today I’m knitting – working my way through the text and weaving in scenes and conversations that will hopefully bring to light the elusive ‘core’. I think it was there all along, but just not overtly enough for people other than me to notice.

And the problem with yearning to be published is that you need to take those people, those potential readers, into account with every word, every description, and every line of dialogue. Otherwise you’re just writing for yourself, and as pure and beautiful as that sounds I don’t think that’s enough for me.

© Jyn Meyer

I’m naturally quite a restless person, so being told to rest to allow my right foot’s Morton’s Neuroma to heal wasn’t advice I heard with joy. After several days of carrying on as normal (i.e. round trips into town involving an hour’s walk), I discovered I’d exceeded what the doctor described, very scientifically as “walking too much.”

When my limping resulted in a back problem, I promised to be a good girl and spend a few days stuck indoors.

But staying in isn’t a thing that comes easily to me. When I’m working from home I’m frequently to be found in nearby parks, having a think. Being trapped in the house seems to make my creativity stagnate, and the only way to fix that is to de-stagnate my body and head out for a quick jaunt.

But I was willing to put up with it for the sake being pain-free, and woke yesterday feeling masses better. Hurrah! I decided to reward myself with a brisk walk with a coffee shop as the destination.

I’m a huge fan of coffee shops. Despite the fact that most of them serve over-priced black water in lieu of actual coffee, I like nothing better than settling at a table to inhale the delicious aromas they pump out to convince us that they actually serve a ‘proper’ brew. That smell, coupled with a backdrop of gentle chatter and perhaps some over-processed jazz, an bundle of newspapers to choose from, or, even better, a free book-swap service, all adds up to a kind of heaven for me.

I think it has something to do with playing at being a grown up. I’ve never quite accepted that I’m more than ten years old, so perhaps the act of ordering and drinking coffee fills me with pleasure because it feels like a game, as I assume the character of a grown up, if only for a moment.

Funny how paying bills doesn’t have the same effect, any more than the experience of my first bad back does. It’s a shame we can’t pick and choose the parts of adulthood we want to emulate, and disregard the rest.