I am not a creature of habit. Not withstanding my daily ritual of morning coffee making, without which I am a witchy mother and wife, and not the spicy sage burning, lavender scented, singing around the fire in the middle of the woods kind, more the whip up a brooding tornado and wreak havoc to all in her wake sort.
The Last Concerto
Therefore, all days begin with freshly crushed beans and slow dripped tar coloured caffeinated brew. But beyond that, every day is unique. I do have romanticised versions of me, smiling as I tip toe lightly through prepping lunch boxes and breakfasts, skipping to school and then sitting in a tidy study to create novels. The reality is much more frenetic, does involve a dash to school (on a heavily decorated bike) and then, depending on acting work, either a stretch of unadulterated time to ferment ideas or a dash to central London for rehearsals or into a recording studio if I’m narrating a book or working on voiceovers.
My favourite days are when I’ve managed to be a calm, personable Mum and partner, then dig into several hours on my allotment, weeding, planting (if the moon is best placed – don’t snigger, my Sardinian great grandparents always worked this way to great effect). Then, I’ll pick whatever I can eat at the time from our beds, sauté it up on my camp stove, chow, and, while the coffee is percolating, get back to writing.
Having my hands in the earth is how my subconscious hatches ideas. I set myself a goal of writing one or two chapters a week, but I’m strict about not being a taskmaster, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. I aim to take myself off the hook, dream for a few days, which looks like all kinds of work with my hands; sorting, digging, planting, cooking, painting, then I can knuckle down and keep a steady pace with writing.
If I crack the whip too hard, my inner rebel sits with her pout and arms firmly crossed, Imagination locked in a metal box some dusty place. Writing days start with activities that engage my hands and body, always before my brain is allowed to shape those instincts. On these days I need nature, silence, and, even though I’m always disciplined about deadlines, an idea that Time, of which we always have more and less than we think, can be morphed by nurturing positive attention toward it. On rehearsal days for a show, I spend hours in my mucky clothes, hair a twitch of twig-like angles so I feel totally free to play and explore without vanity, alongside my colleagues.
All days end with a loud family meal – my husband, two children and I live with my parents. Most nights my mum and I will cook together and despite the jagged conversations around the table, all of us tired, brains scrawny after full days of school and work, I wouldn’t swap our nightly ritual for anything.
Sara Alexander is a British-Sardinian actress and author born and raised in North-West London. Sara has published two novels with HarperCollins, each inspired by her roots in Sardinia where she regularly returns. Sara is particularly known for her championing of the female experience through both her acting and her novels. Her next novel, The Last Concerto, is published on 22 August and is set between Sardinia, Rome and Sicily.
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