Time for change

Here are two recent entries in my notebook. Funny how quickly our lives can turn around.

Saturday 23rd November

I’m appalled at how little writing I’ve done this year. This notebook is less than half full, my novel untouched for months (and months), my thoughts embroiled with work. And now this promotion to a management role. Have I made the right decision taking on more work? I know there will be lots to do and big changes to be made. My mind will be preoccupied and distracted. What will this mean for my writing? Will I ever find time to put pen to paper, to think it matters enough? My writing plays second, third, fourth fiddle to everything else in my life – family, job, household chores. Why can’t I prioritise it and find the space for it? How do others manage it? One friend says I’m not selfish enough. Is that what it takes – selfishness? Perhaps on some level it does require a certain selfish attitude. It requires me to think that my writing is more important than anything else at that moment. And that is an exceptionally hard thing to do.

 

Tuesday 10th December

Ha! I wrote that piece just a couple of weeks ago and the change in my situation has been dramatic. Sitting in this empty café, overlooking a dreary, blustery grey sea, the voice of a young Michael Jackson chirping in my ear about Santa coming to town, I’m wondering what on earth happened. I’m shell-shocked, a turmoil of thoughts and emotions in my heart and head. An occasional anxious panic grips my chest and sets my pulse aflutter. Within two weeks of promotion, I am jobless again. Me being me, I’m questioning whether I made a mistake in resigning. If I hurtled headlong into something, whether I considered it for long enough. But deep in the pit of my roiling stomach, I know. This is for the best. This is the right decision. I know that I could not have continued working for an organisation whose professional values did not really match my own, despite what outward appearances suggested. But, what now? I have no real idea. Some time for relaxation and reflection. Everything happens for a reason; I truly believe that. I rushed into a job when my home education days ended. The void was huge and I was afraid. I panicked. I have always found it easier to think about and help other people rather than face myself, so perhaps the job was a way of running away – from the idea of writing, of being creative, of doing something for me. I don’t know. One thing I’m certain of, I’m going to enjoy Christmas.

The hand is willing but the brain is weak

How can a mind be empty and full at the same time?

This is the problem I have been struggling with this past week. Uninspired, unable to put pen to paper, my brain has battled with an army of niggling worries instead. Each time I’ve attempted to sit at the keyboard, my focus has disappeared and my head has felt it will burst from the pressure of unhelpful thoughts building behind my eyes.

This week was going to be the start. My son was off to college, I would finally have time to get on with my writing. Every day I would work on my novel, chipping away at the chapters. I have failed. The words have not flowed, the ideas have deserted me. Even re-reading and editing has been beyond my capabilities.

I can’t put my finger on exactly what is wrong. Yes, there is anxiety. Will my son be happy in this new phase? Will my daughter be safe on her travels in the US? Will I be able to get my novel written? Yes, there is anticipation. Won’t it be great when my daughter gets home next week? Won’t it be a relief when the barn is rebuilt? Will anyone want to read my novel? Yes, there is concern. Should I get a job? Will my daughter settle happily at university? Will I be able to get my novel published?

So, I abandon my desk and escape outside. I breath in the cool air, let the rain freshen my face and the wild wind tangle my hair. My shoulders relax as I walk in the garden. The swallow family are preparing to leave us; the young swoop joyfully above me, chattering like monkeys. The bracken is turning from bright green to shades of copper and gold. A wood pigeon flutters in the hedge, greedily gobbling up elderberries. My goats bleat, happy in my company. I feel a sense of joy to be in the open. Under the wide grey sky, my thoughts settle. Here in this moment, I am composed.

Perhaps I’ve piled on too much expectation. Writing isn’t about having the time. Writing is a state of being. We must feel  the need or desire to write. If we lose the compulsion, then it is time to withdraw, take a break. I must give myself some space to calm my mind and recharge my imagination. Tomorrow is another day and I will try again. Writing is about doing the hard work too. A professional writer gets down to the task. I will not panic. I will listen to some useful writing advice:

“If you get stuck, get away from your desk. Take a walk, take a bath, go to sleep, make a pie, draw, listen to ­music, meditate, exercise; whatever you do, don’t just stick there scowling at the problem. But don’t make telephone calls or go to a party; if you do, other people’s words will pour in where your lost words should be. Open a gap for them, create a space. Be patient.” — Hilary Mantel

“Chain that muse to your desk and get the job done.” — Barbara Kingsolver

What do you do when unable to focus on writing?

 

The distractions of poetry

Sometimes when I sit down to work on my novel, my mind wanders and is unable to focus. I am stuck or uncertain where to go with the story; I feel frustrated, empty of ideas, completely hopeless.

Sometimes I find myself working on a poem instead; my novel left untouched. I’m not sure if it’s a distraction or a kind of procrastination. I hope it’s a continuation of the creative process.

Poetry opens my imagination. I can express thoughts and ideas. I can experiment. I can develop my skills as a writer; use description, imagery, play with words. I must not worry. The more I write, the better I will get. The important thing is to write. Write anything, write everything and write as often as I can.

So this morning, when I sat down to think about my novel, a conversation with my husband popped into my head. At the moment, the weather is particularly unseasonable. This is an interaction we have on many nights, it’s almost a poem:

 

Get your hands off me,

they’re freezing.

Cold hands, warm heart.

Your heart must be a 

fiery furnace.

Get your feet off me,

they’re ice blocks.

Cold feet, poor circulation.

Your toes will

fall off one day.

You’re an iceberg.

I’m not your personal heater.

Yes, you are.

A husband is your very own

hot water bottle.