|Apropos of nothing really... just love the autumn leaves.|
Alan Bennett on Radio 4 yesterday (31/10/16): ‘If you’re not writing, you’re not a writer.’ The interviewer asked him whether he was currently writing anything and Mr Bennett replied coyly, with (mock?) shame and in his lovely Leeds accent, ‘No-o...’
Hmm. Of course, it all hinges on how frequently you need to write in order to call yourself a writer. Small breaks are acceptable, I’m sure. I’m also sure that Alan Bennett will deserve to go on being called a writer, however long a break he chooses to take, but for us lesser mortals it’s a pertinent question.
It’s a while since I wrote anything, other than editorial reports, emails, shopping lists and all those reminder scribbles that become more and more essential as the years go by. These days I make a list of ‘topics’ before speaking to my children on Skype. They think it’s funny. I used to think it was funny, too, when my mother made a list before speaking on the phone. I haven’t quite got to the stage of writing down my children’s names before I call them, but it may one day happen.
But back to writing fiction, which is what I really mean by writing. This time last year I did NaNoWriMo for the first time and was delighted when I managed to achieve my target word count of 50,000 by the end of the month. Of course, the result was far from being a finished novel, and would need a good deal of rewriting, filling out and editing before being ready to show to anyone else. Sadly, it remains on my computer, dated 30/11/15, and I’ve not even looked at it since. What was supposed to be a three-month fallow period has somehow turned into a whole year. That wouldn’t be so bad if I’d been working on other books in the meantime, but apart from a few abortive attempts to start something new, I haven’t.
One reason is a health scare I had back in January. All turned out to be OK, or at least there was no major problem, thank goodness, but I’ve been left with a number of irritating symptoms and rather a lot of anxiety, which is taking a long time to go away. I have managed to keep going with my editing and proofreading, though I haven’t done a lot in the way of marketing so my workload has not been high. I’m only really now getting back to ‘normal’ in many aspects of everyday life. It’s easy to turn such things into excuses, but I think this is at least part of the reason for my lack of writing.
Am I missing it? Well, yes. When I don’t write, I feel only half alive. Reading helps, but it’s not enough. I read quickly and get through a lot of books. When I’m in the middle of an exceptional one I can almost forget I’m not writing*, but books that have this effect are few and far between, and because I read so quickly the experience is soon over. I really do need to write.
For years I had glib answers to the problem of writer’s block. Sit down at your desk every morning at 9 a.m. (or some other regular time) and the Muse will know where to find you, I used to say. Or: ‘Never mind the quality, just make sure you write your quota of words each day.’ ‘Turn off the internal editor while you write your first draft.’ All this is good advice for many writers, much of the time – but somehow it just doesn’t cut it anymore for me. I can sit down and produce the words, but I don’t have any faith in them. There’s no sense I’m going anywhere – no desire to find out what happens next. It feels as if I’m reading a bad book instead of a good one. I’ve truly lost my oomph.
I’ve also tried, on several people’s wise advice, to give myself permission not to write for a while. Maybe I need to give it a bit longer. Perhaps inspiration is waiting somewhere down the line. After all, if I don’t get back to writing, what will I do? True, I have my editing, which is very satisfying in its way. There are always things to do around the house (groan...) and I suppose I could do more in the garden. I could find some voluntary work to do, I could take more exercise, spend more time with family and friends, find a new hobby, go to more plays and concerts, travel more (expensive, though)… but I know full well that if I don’t write there’ll always be something missing. So I really hope the Muse will find me once again.
I’ve bought a hardback notebook and I’m going to write in it, one page a day. A kind of diary, not my own but that of an imaginary friend of a similar age to me but with a different personality and life. She is going to write her journal, a page a day. Perhaps not even a page. An entry every day, on a new page. For a whole year. I hope to get to know her in that time. What will happen after that, I do not know. It's the best I can do and I hope it's better than nothing. I’ll keep you posted.
|Daisy, my granddaughter, happily being creative. No worries about writer's or artist's block for her! (Photo by Gemma Glasbey, Oct 2016)|
*I'm currently reading Etched On Me by Jenn Crowell, which is one of those exceptional books. If more books had this effect on me, I'm not sure I would need to write at all. Highly recommended.
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