I sneak downstairs, usually in the dark, like a naughty, nosy child, warm up my writing room, and sit at the table. I have no lights on (except the computer screen), and the windows look south (with east-west views) over our apple and fruit trees garden.

The only company I allow and is around at this precious time of the day is the dawn chorus from the multitude of birds that I always hear but never see and our two Labradoodles who enjoy the freedom of being out of the night-time beds and fall straight back to sleep as soon as the laptop is opened. The sun rises all around me and usually begins with a cacophony from the birds, followed by streaking lights as the sun hits the horizon until I have a clear, beautiful morning.  Today, it is frosty and shining.

I write and hope to gain some financial reward for all my efforts, but I lack the self-confidence to push my work. After many years of short stories, I challenged myself to write a novel in a month, which, although it took longer than a month, is now being edited slowly. I still write regularly and now try to post a blog occasionally, commenting on episodes in my chaotic and full life. I never name anyone directly and write under my Tiggy Hayes pen name. Dawn Chorus, the name of my blog, refers to the time I write.

I am an avid follower of NANOWRIMO and find this an incredible way to allow a story to develop in its own manner.   I write short stories to break and give my longer pieces time out. I submit these to This is Alfred, our local radio station or send them off to competitions. I do very little planning and allow my characters to lead me, often down paths I do not expect as the words tumble out. I don’t know where the words come from, and I frequently find that I have a different ending or a new twist that is not where I thought we were going.  The rough draft is usually good content but requires considerable work to bring it to readable material.

I am a fan of Swanwick Writer’s School, which I hope to return to again this summer. I come away from the week feeling so inspired and really at one with the world. I immerse myself with people around me who thrive on words as well and do not regard me as weird! I belong there and meet so many fantastically creative people who encourage and challenge me but never make me feel inferior.

I am a mother of three boys, all now in their 20s. The eldest is a rugby nerd and lives and breathes rugby. He works locally as an estate agent whilst supposedly studying for his estate management degree via correspondence course.  He lives with his fiancee and Vizla, visiting occasionally for dog sitting, food or clothes washing.  He still plays sporadic rugby at the local club after a series of episodic injuries, including a whole season out through a significant injury on his hips (not caused by rugby but maybe exacerbated).

The middle son is a senior sous chef at a prestigious golf spa hotel in Wiltshire.  We see him occasionally when he needs some good old-fashioned home cooking rather than his fine dining or takeaways.  Living with his waitress girlfriend, they keep very different hours to the rest of us. 

The youngest son has just bought his own flat and lives in a building site as he renovates it, juggling with work and the passion to learn DIY.

My husband is a fitness freak who enjoys sailing—the proper sailing, which is not my kind of luxury yacht and Pimms type. To punish himself further, he competed in triathlons and spent many hours a week away from his pressurised job pounding the streets, wheels, or local swimming pool. For a significant birthday, he decided to cycle from Land’s End to John O’Groats for the fun of it! I joined him with the car and used the time to research a novel.  

I had a rather idyllic childhood, if somewhat bohemian in some ways.   My mother worked from home, creating businesses that utilised our old, rambling rectory.  Based deep within a farming community, we didn’t quite farm, but there were always animals: cats, dogs, cows, sheep, pigs and horses, not to mention the chickens, ducks and geese that weaved their way through our growing years.  Summer holidays came to us, together with family, friends and paying guests rather than us going on them.  As the eldest of 6 children, my childhood was immortalised in the story “Our Grass was Greener” by my father, Peter G Lawrence.

Enjoy, and please feel free to comment.

Tiggy