I can’t write at home. I know lots of writers can and do, but I’m not one of them. The slightest floorboard creak, dog wants out, noise from the radio, door bang, cough, sneeze or beep-beep-beep of a reversing lorry and it’s over, laptop shut. The distant echo of a crisp crunch from downstairs and I’m Jack Torrance in search of a hatchet.
I write in the café chains of my north west London neighbourhood. The low hum of chatter and spoons in tea cups, coffee machines and sandwiches being ordered is fine. In fact, it’s good, comforting, productive. I can get more written in two hours in that environment than ten hours of my don’t-breathe-wrong-or-die policy at home. I don’t know the café-goers. I am not required to engage.
Willesden is a ten minute walk from where I live, and a ten minute walk in any direction in London can put you into know-no-man’s land which, for me, is absolutely brilliant. No sign of neighbours or friends, you can be somewhere that’s the direct opposite of Cheers, where nobody knows your name and they’re not at all fussed that you came.
That’s not to say Londoners are ignorant or unfriendly – that’s a myth – Londoners are very friendly (in fact, as I write this, the nice woman at a table beside mine just cleared the surface and it wasn’t even her used cup). It’s just a big city full of busy people who for the most part are polite, but like to keep themselves to themselves. And thus, London is a good place to be a writer (as long as you don’t share a table).
Generally speaking, I rotate between a few different cafes in and around NW2. Once inside and in the queue for the tea or coffee I begin to scan to see where I’ll sit, as I suffer from momentary self-imposed correct-seat OCD panic, whereby if I can’t get the seat I need, I won’t be able to get anything done. This seat search can involve a few false start moves (not unlike Mike Reid’s Runaround) until I get somewhere with nothing behind me, no one looking over my shoulder.
Most of my novels, columns, interviews and other work have been written at Costa, Gail’s, The Library at Willesden Green and, outside of NW2, Westfield Shepherd’s Bush, Brent Cross shopping centre and a little at King’s Cross. Each have their benefits, particularly for writing fiction.
1. The Library at Willesden Green
I usually take a flask and a sandwich with me. My subconscious must think of it as some kind of picnic camp site, which it sort of is, as every single type of person you can imagine goes in there from every walk of life to camp out for a couple of hours. The library has good facilities, including nice rooms that hold author events. A few years back I was privileged to do one to a packed audience of four. Two were friends, one was an acquaintance. I asked the other one how she heard about the event (which had been written about in Brent and Kilburn Times) and she replied: “I just came in out of the rain.”
In this large building there are many places to sit and work, so I try to find a table that doesn’t have those wooden benches that punish one’s behind like a church pew. Solo chairs can be difficult to come by, especially if there’s a scheduled group going on. Timing is crucial to avoid the scurry of bobble-hatted primary school children on a visit. Upon reaching the arc of my most recent book, June, the beginning of the end was formed in the library as dusk was falling around the building. This was perfect, as main character Frank had just been sent upstairs to a bedroom to confirm if his dead wife’s spirit was lurking in the corner.
2.Gail’s, Willesden High Road
Gail’s has a good hum, and can be great for detail, such as the elderly man I can see right now who has too many clothes for the weather. He’s removed his hat, scarf, gloves and they’re all on the table, and now he’s working on his coat and cardie, which are coming off together at the sleeves. I wrote an elderly character named Mabel Hughes in Gail’s (who hates her neighbour, Tommy Fletcher) and I’ve just stolen a full description from a man sitting in front of me, who is well-dressed in a suit, but has a hole in his sock at the heel, peeking above his hard leather shoe, which is leaving a red mark.
The green tea in a pot in Gail’s is good, but you have to remove the leaves quite quickly or it gets stewed and horrible. Gail’s is also not the cheapest, but they do leave you alone and there’s always a few other tap-tappers flying solo.
3. Costa, Willesden High Road (formerly The Spotted Dog pub)
Every time I enter my favourite place to write, The Costa Dog as I call it, I stress, hoping that the table in the semi-hidden private corner is available. Occasionally, people are playing chess in that spot, but the second I see it’s free I get quite excited because I know I’m in for a good couple of hours in the other universe where all my characters live. It’s a great feeling to wonder where they’ll go and what they’ll do that day while I sit at that little table.
Tea is the cheapest in Costa and I can sit for hours and nobody will bother me to leave. In my novel Jackie there’s a storyline where the title character goes to visit to her mother’s grave and a white feather lands on top of her headstone. That whole chapter was written in the quietness of The Costa Dog, at the chess table.
4. Westfield Food Court
The saddest chapter in June was written in the middle of the food court at Westfield. Tears poured down my face at a table beside the Indi-go, and nobody noticed or said anything. The story was unravelling in the most beautiful way between Clarence and his Granny and my fingers couldn’t keep up with the flow. After reaching the last sentence I treated myself to an excellent Masala dosa, as I knew what I had written was so powerful it had overtaken me in the best way possible.
The downside of Westfield is I have to take the Tube there, and that eats into writing time. It’s also really enormous and takes ages to walk around, but the chapter I wrote there remains the best thing I’ve ever written.
5. Leon, Brent Cross
Sitting upstairs on the balcony while Brent Cross buzzes around me is where I get the pages flying. Sometimes I just have a tea but the Leon Love Burger is probably the best vegan burger I’ve ever had, so I like to go in hungry. Parking at Brent Cross is free, but you really need a car to visit, or it’s two buses from NW10.
I flew into the new book I’m currently writing after a Love Burger in Leon, and I instantly knew what the first four chapters were going to look like. It all came out like a possessed exchange between me and the laptop. I sat for four hours at the corner table while all the people I didn’t see came and ate and went, enjoying something with a side of waffle fries. I can’t tell you the title of my next book yet, it’s in development. In the meantime, try the Love Burger.
6. Brent Cross Cafeteria
You can’t really just order a drink in here, it’s the only place where it’s gotta be food too. The bread, however, is incredible, so I go for the avocado and chickpea sandwich and green tea (comes in a lovely glass pot). This is a less productive place to write, but I do like the food, which always arrives quite quickly. I think this is because they see me coming and speed it all up so I’ll finish and leave sooner. I get the stare if I stay too long, and the “Anything else?” shove towards the bill, but 500 words can be worth it for the bread alone.
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I’ve been less successful with places outside of my NW10 and NW2 ‘hood, one of which is the British Library. It always comes top of lists of “places to write in London”, but I violently disagree. The place is swarming with students, and they’re all far too nice. When a seat becomes available at a table of four, I sit down to share knowing this is not good for me. When any kind of chat gets going I’m a chronic over-talker, and end up meeting people and getting into conversations about being a writer, which is ironic as I leave having not written a word.
I used to be so good at writing on any train leaving from Euston, usually going to Manchester or Glasgow. A lot of my first novel, Frank, was developed and written on trains between 2012 and 2017, the latter being the year it was published. Maybe that’s because Frank himself worked on the railways before he retired. I wonder if I that his profession because I was on a train when I wrote his story, but if I think too much about that I end up chicken and egging the issue.
The best writing off-site I’ve ever treated myself to was a couple of days at the Grand Hotel in Sunderland. It’s old and slightly run down, but affordable and right on the seafront in Seaburn. I was able to write a lot of character dialogue there, including an amusing exchange in June about a jar of Dolmio. I learned of the power of being near the sea and hearing the lap of waves. It brought me total peace to think of nothing else but the story.
There are no waves in London, except the ones that say cheerio. My green tea has stewed. Time to go home.
This column was brought to you from Gail’s, where nobody opened crisps, spoke too loudly or breathed incorrectly.
Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots, lots more. Follow her on Bluesky. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.