When I first began writing I was so terrified I wouldn't be able to do it, I made myself start as soon as I got up. Three hours was what I promised I'd do. No more or less. To my amazement, this worked. The pages accumulated. The story grew. Within a year, I had my first novel. But as time has passed, I've become less strict. Partly through necessity and partly due to a willingness on my behalf to be distracted.
Another writer once told me about a sign they'd been given: Writer at work, please disturb. And I've noticed that as my anxiety has subsided, my discipline has slipped. But by 10am I'm desperate to get to work. If I don't start soon, I won't be able to start at all. My morale is higher in the morning, my eye sharper, my doubts ring less loudly in my ears. In the morning anything seems possible. In the afternoon I can't imagine why I bother at all.
I start every day with rewriting. I go back a few pages or, sometimes, to the very beginning, fiddling and fixing, reacquainting myself with my characters, my landscape, my plot, and then, like a motor revving up, incredibly slowly, I'm moving forward, writing into the unknown. People often ask about the dreaded blank page, but I almost never see it. I'm working from the inside out, fattening things up. This is the happiest time. Nothing can distract me now.
I work till 2pm, but it's the last 20 minutes that are often the most productive. It's when, faced with my self-imposed deadline, I stop scrutinising each sentence and write into the story, almost with my eyes shut, forging ahead, laying words down to be examined the next day. Now I am no longer available for distraction. If I hear a door open, or a phone ring, my stomach lurches and my body goes still. Please do not disturb.
• Esther Freud's latest novel is Lucky Break (Bloomsbury)
