That’s so not me.

When I’m writing, I need the following:

This is my (tiny) home work space. It’s where I write this blog, write features for magazines and websites, blog for companies, send emails, edit websites and take my client phone calls.

It’s my “cave”, my little cubbyhole at the bottom of the stairs, just for me.

Since going self-employed two years ago, I’ve found there are a number of ingredients that I need for the right “headspace” to string together a coherent sentence, or edit a feature. (None of this applies to the radio work by the way, that needs something TOTALLY different, obviously.)

My perfect recipe looks like this: tidy desk, hot drink (in the evening that’ll be a peppermint tea), notepaper to jot down scribbles, a closed tweetdeck, no music, To Do lists on my blackboard and a blanket for when it gets chilly.

Often I’ll have about ten ideas jostling for room in my head before I sit down. Whether it’s a feature, a blog post, a piece of copywriting or some editing, I tend to take a couple of minutes faffing before I get into “the zone”.

It’s funny to write about what I do when I’m writing, because I’ve never really thought about it until now. It’s the one thing I’m pretty particular about, in that I can’t concentrate if I’ve got a pile of rubbish on my desk, or loud music in the background.

I find it fascinating to see how other people work. Those of us who write for a living tend to have different ways of doing things. I have friends who compose features at their kitchen table on a laptop, others who take to their bed with a pile of magazines and an iPad and others still who come up with their most creative ideas while in the shower.

Many of my ideas come to me while doing something mundane like pegging out the washing or driving somewhere, but they don’t get made into anything tangible until I’m safely settled in my “cave”.

I remember watching a documentary years ago about Roald Dahl’s work space. I was struck by how simple it was; a tiny shed in the garden, a chair, a blanket and a wooden board to rest on his knees. With just those items, in that place, he could let his imagination dream up the twisting plots and colourful characters he became famous for.

This post was inspired by my blogging buddy Jo at Dexterous Diva, but I’d love to know how you achieve your perfect working / blogging frame of mind. What do you need to compose that post? Do you write on the hop or have you got a little ritual you go through before you get stuck in?

Leave a comment – or write your own post and link up in the comments below.

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Not successful enough? Not rich enough? Not achieved enough in your career? Not been a good enough parent or partner?

Because I get that. All the time.

I got a postcard from my mum today. She titled it “Bringing Home The Bacon” and put a note on the back, reminding me that it’s important to be ambitious but not to the point where you set yourself targets you can’t reach. She is wise.

Still.

I can’t seem to battle the feeling I’m not doing ENOUGH at the moment. Before Christmas, I blogged about my huge workload and battle to get everything done. I wrote last month about a lack of balance and shared recently that things have started to even out a bit. I’m working less and relaxing more.

Still.

There’s always a voice in my head that whispers “Do MORE!”. I feel like I should blog more, better. I should pitch more, to bigger publications, better. I should be actively seeking out more broadcasting work, touting myself more. I should be, just, well, BETTER.

A better mum, a better writer, a better presenter, a better wife. I look around my Twitter feed and see a string of successful people. Surely I can’t be the ONLY person to occasionally get a pang of career envy or mother envy or just, sheer self-doubt, as I kick myself for not trying harder?

I’ve always been this way. As a kid at school, I’d get an A grade and instantly feel cross with myself that it wasn’t an A*. Or at university, I’d write a piece for the student newspaper or do a stint of work experience at a radio station and feel dissatisfied. It wasn’t enough that I’d done something more than my studies, I would scold myself for not being the one student in the year to be picked out for a job before they’d even graduated.

I don’t think being a woman helps. I constantly question if I’m being a good enough mum to my toddler, if I’m around enough, if I give her enough attention and arrange enough one-to-one activities for her. I battle with a constant pile of laundry and unmade beds and dusty carpets, cross with myself that I haven’t stayed up an extra hour to get it all done. I know my husband doesn’t worry about these things.

And that takes me back to the being good enough issue – I’m not a good enough homemaker (or whatever we call it in the UK). Basically, I’m rubbish at housework.

The share it all society that we now live in doesn’t help particularly. I live in a world of Facebook and Twitter, emails and text messages. Not a day passes when another person’s success, big news, exciting project or motherhood win isn’t posted in my face. We are connected with so many people, so much of the time, that simple maths concludes we will regularly witness these kinds of triumphs. This is positive – of course it is – but it’s also negative, if you’re having a bad day. On days like these it can make you feel like a bit of a failure if you don’t have big news of your own to shout about.

On this occasion, I’ve decided to take my mum’s advice. Like I said, she is wise. I’m going to remain ambitious in every area of my life, but I’m going to be pleased and satisfied with the small wins too. I don’t think we shout enough about the small wins – the ORDINARY stuff. I need to start feeling successful again.

So, my small win of the day: I made a pancake without it breaking up into a mound of rubbery gunge. Granted, not IMMEDIATELY…

But I had it down to a tee after the fourth attempt.

What’s your ordinary win of the day? And do you ever feel like you’re not good enough? I know I can’t be the only one…

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It goes something like this, “I just don’t know how you do it”. Or, “I couldn’t do it, I don’t know how you do”. Or, “You should really take care – I mean, I just don’t know how you manage it”.

In each situation, the person is talking about my work.

I say “work” rather than “job”, because I actually have several jobs. I juggle these around the regular duties of motherhood, just like hundreds of thousands of other women up and down the country.

The thing is, this juggling and racing around at a hundred miles an hour has become the norm for me now. I get up at 3.45am, drive 45 minutes to work, present a breakfast radio show, do post and pre-show prep, then drive 45 minutes to the childminder and collect my child. I spend the afternoon avoiding tantrums and attempting to make my motherhood tiara sparkle like a disco ball, before putting my daughter to bed and starting the next run of work.

The other work involves sitting at my computer and writing. It may be writing copy for clients, writing features for magazines or websites, writing blog posts or just writing a million and one response emails. Either way, writing is very much a part of what I do and how I put money in the bank.

This isn’t particularly exciting, but I want to keep a record of my life as it is right now, because I know it won’t be this way forever.

At some point I will either have another baby, burn out or win the lottery.

Or – and this is the thing that really keeps me going – the work will dry out. Because when you’re self-employed, there’s nothing like the fear of having no work to keep you battling on.

So, to those that ask me “How do you do it?” my response is this: I do it because I can, because I love what I do, because I have to, because I don’t know how long I’ll be doing it for and because I want to purchase my own home eventually.

But, above all else, I do it for this:

Frog, aka Miss Motivator

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I’ve written about the Mother Guilt before. It tears at me every morning as I leave the house, knowing I won’t be the first person to say good morning to my baby. It tugs a little more as I put her to bed at night, wondering if I have done all I can to be a good mum to her that day.

The thing is, I work because I have to. If I didn’t do this job I would be doing another one. I’d either be working from home (as I was before), continuously trying to check emails as my toddler hanged off my leg, or I’d be working in a newsroom somewhere, juggling the childcare run, packing of nappy bag and all the rest that entails leaving a house with a small person.

When I say “I have to” work, it’s not just a statement based on financial reasons. Yes, we need the money. What family doesn’t at the moment? But I also enjoy my job. I want to make the most of every opportunity that I can, as well as making use of my degrees, training, work experience. I want to be an example to my daughter. I want to retain some of the me that existed before she arrived.

But there’s always that guilt.

So imagine how miffed I was to read that, apparently, if you decide to be a mother, you should also decide to give up work. That’s according to Gwyneth Paltrow anyway.

The Beautiful One gave an interview to Harper’s Bazaar recently, in which she shared words of wisdom for women and mothers across the globe. According to Gwynnie, we all have to cook a fulfilling meal for our husband when he gets home from work. And we have to give up work and any sort of career when we have a baby. (That’s if we want to be the very best mum, you understand.)

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not arguing either way for being a stay at home mum, work at home mum, working mum or anything inbetween. As far as I’m concerned, whatever your choice is just that – yours.

I’m not going to sit here judging you if you go out to work and put your children in childcare, just as I’m not going to sit here judging you if you give up work to look after your children full time.

It’s nothing to do with me. I’m doing my best just to keep my own head above water and do as good a job as I can of being a mum. I’m doing what my own mum did before me, and her mum did before that. I’m doing the same as every mum I know. Trying my hardest.

I may not make my husband a homecooked meal every night. I’m either too knackered or working to try and earn money towards that sacred deposit on a house. So I’m sorry for not being as perfect and rich and wifely as you Gwyneth.

But I’m doing my best.

And if that isn’t good enough well, Gwyneth, you can just rod off.

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Ever since becoming a mum I’ve been veering more and more towards the No Clothes Camp. First of all, my favourite jeans refused to stretch with my newly wobbly belly. Then my tops refused to shrink with my newly shrivelled mammary glands. Then Every. Single. Pair of socks I owned got up and did a disappearing act.

So I’ve been spending my days since June 2010 dressed in a mixture of clothes borrowed from my sister and my husband, with the odd Primarni purchase thrown in for good measure. And no socks.

And it takes so bloomin’ long to get dressed doesn’t it? Especially in the dark when you have nothing for company but the loud percussion provided by your snoring husband’s wind orchestra. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve wandered out of the house in the morning dressed in a fetching ensemble of milk splattered pyjama top and holey leggings, simply because it was all I could find in the pitch black.

Then you’ve got the whole getting the child dressed in the morning thing. If we were to become nudists, the Battle of the Tights would be forgotten. A peace treaty could be signed to signal the end of wrestling matches over jumpers. Bliss.

Can you imagine a world where you only had to get up and make a cup of tea in the morning before leaving the house? A world with no daily choosing of outfits? A world with no hide and seek games to persuade reluctant children into clothes?

I can just see us now -  a family of three, wandering about Berkshire free as the day we were born, with nothing to cover us but a content smile (and maybe a pair of nipple warmers in the current climate).

Lateness would be a thing of the past. We’d be on time, every time.

Punctual. Happy. At peace. What’s not to love about being a nudist?

Well I suppose the heating bills could be a bit pricey. And there’d be nowhere for the cellulite to hide…

Maybe not then.

Someone who would be rather pleased about becoming a nudist

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Not just any Gypsy, you understand. A Gypsy from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.

What a fascinating programme (on Channel Four, if you missed it). It gives a real insight into how the Traveller community live – and the role of Traveller women. Which seems, to me, to be a much simpler one than “country” women like me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I want to live in a caravan and be taken out of school at thirteen. But the women interviewed on this programme didn’t seem to struggle with any of the issues myself and other mums I know are currently grappling with. They have a clearly defined role. Their job is to stay at home and look after the babies while the men go out to work.

Now, I realise this could get me a lot of stick with Women’s Lib types. And I am all for female independence as much as the next person. Before I had baby Frog I never dreamed I would want to give up full time work in a fast-paced exciting job. But now I’m considering doing just that. And it’s making me feel really torn. Am I a second-class citizen if I choose to spend more time at home with my baby? Am I just being a wet new mum? Isn’t it a waste of those two expensive degrees (get me!)?

Traveller women don’t have any of these concerns. Going back to work isn’t an option, because they never left for work in the first place.

But then we meet Bridget. She is in a huge minority in that she left a violent husband to bring her children up solo. And we discover this just isn’t an option for many other women in the travelling community. They can’t leave abusive relationships because if they do, they can’t provide for their children. Many of them can’t even read and write.

And we also meet Lizzie and her twelve year old sister Margaret. Lizzie hasn’t gone to school since she was eleven. Now she’s getting married and it’s Margaret’s turn to stay at home.

And it all seems so incredibly sad. These girls have never been given the option to go out to work. They weren’t even allowed to stay on at school.

So I suppose I don’t really want to be a Gypsy after all. But having lots of money and the option to go part-time would be rather nice.

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