1

Every day, Andrew Miller, our tutor, has us write lists. 10 ways a character might see themselves. 10 ways you could begin a story. You find that by item 6 you are struggling, but if you push through then you unlock a number of interesting, left-field options that really animate whatever you write next.

            I have started doing this with my own practice; it has worked wonders.

2

On the morning of my trip, my bus is delayed by an hour. Not to worry though, because the driver is a lunatic and we stream on through the Devon countryside at the very limits of the bus’s capabilities. It rattles through country lanes and bucks, hissing, along the M5. We pass a Fiat 500 whose passengers look up at us as if we were some rare beast who has not wandered this isle for some decades.

3

In Scotland, the views floor me. On the journey, I am subject to lush forests and lochs, crags, valleys, fields of waving heather; in Moniack Mhor, the window above my writing desk looks out upon rolling hills.  I keep the curtains open throughout my stay, so I may wake with the sun and witness the changing colours of the sky.

4

I have come to Moniack Mhor to do the Historical Fiction course. But I must confess: I am not a Historical Fiction writer.

            I have the trappings of one, perhaps. I love the past. I love research. I want my readers to feel moved from the here and now to some world parallel to the one we exist in.

            But I write fantasy. My fiction is one with magic and made-up lands. When greeted with facts, I like to squint a little so I may do with them what I want. On the course, I am here as a sort of cuckoo, stolen into some other bird’s nest - without the murderous intent, obviously - but still I feel a little cheeky being here, a little off centre.

5

We eat together on the first evening - a beautiful curry.

            Nobody knows me here, so I must hide the fact I eat as if food were going out of fashion. I could have eaten four helpings of the curry. I could have devoured a whole basket of naan. But decorum descends upon me and I halt myself. Thankfully, there is dessert. 

            We are fed well all week. Wonderful, natural food - the sort of food that feels part of the place - soups, quiches, all sorts of bread, dozens of homely cakes and sugary treats.

            One night, several students and I work together to make the evening meal. This is a wonderful experience, especially when everybody is sitting at the table, enjoying the food you have made, and it is wonderful to be fed by others on other nights, especially with the winds howling outside and the candles lit.

6

We introduce ourselves and what we will be working on after dinner. Our tutors are Andrew Miller and Lucy Jago. Both are brilliant writers: wise, astute, funny. My fellow students are all supremely talented and working on projects which sound fantastic. 

            I work on Magnella while I am here, sneaking downstairs in the semi-dark to make coffee and write while the sun rises. I am used to working off to the side of life, but here I am allowed to sink deep into the novel and grapple with it. I realise this is a great privilege, to be able to do this work, even for short patches of time - and here I feel overwhelmingly privileged and overwhelmingly like I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing.

7

We have lessons in the mornings and so it is almost, kind of, sort of, like school. We do not take a register, but a white board is brought out and the day's lesson written upon it. Photocopied text is circulated. We have assignments. We have break time. We have lunch time.

               Often, while we are working at the long table in scratchy silence, I look up and the tutors are whispering to each other, as if they are in an exam hall. Or they are examining the shelves and picking out works they like.

               Most of our time is spent talking about the relationship between fiction and history, how the past is treated like a foreign land and books are a passport to such a place, how loose or detailed our research can be, how, even within the container of a genre, there is much room for experiment.

8

I have tutorials with both Andrew and Lucy. I print out extracts and leave them in pigeonholes. At my appointed hour, I trek down to the little hobbit hut and meet with them.

            Within thirty minutes, Lucy is able to fix most of my problems with my opening and steer my book in the right direction. Andrew, meanwhile, makes me think about the larger picture of my work, what I want to do with the body of it. Something I have not particularly thought of before.

9

On the last night, there are bagpipes and haggis and perhaps too much wine. Together we all read out from work we have done this past week. A fire is lit, and though it has only been a short time, we feel kindred.

               Many of the others have come to Moniack Mhor before. They tell me there is something special about this place. It draws people back, they say. And because these people keep returning and these people are so talented, it seems their talent has leaked into the walls of the place, and so when you are working here you feel yourself uplifted a little, you sit a little straighter at your desk and work a little more brightly.

10

It comes time to leave and it is, of course, all too soon. It is not exactly mournful, but still there is the feeling that one has to step through a door and return to ordinary life.

            On the trip back through the Scottish countryside, great flocks of geese gather above the fields. They form arrows of cycling wings. I do not know whether they are arriving to see out the winter or departing for warmer climates.