I’m not writing recently. (Well. I’m writing a blipfoto journal every day, but usually that’s pretty crap.) My anxiety and self-deprecation/punishment/what you will put their foot (feet?) down on the time taken to be creative. It’s not on to spend a long time doing things in your head or at a computer that generate no obvious signs of physical production. You can’t eat words and stories. Apparently. Or something like that. I’m not entirely sure of the reasons: all I know is the other day I said “I’ve forgotten how to write” but I’m quite sure that’s not exactly true. I’m just not allowing myself to write. Or rather: some part of my persona is not allowing me to write. Anyway, that’s enough colons.
My thoughts and stories and flashes of inspiration are like seeds on a frozen, stoney ground in winter. They might be goers. They might be interesting. They may have potential. Given a chance they may flourish, but in these conditions they don’t stand a chance.
Instead I am gardening. I’m not currently seeing anything worth celebrating and – as a self-hating, forehead slapping, perfectionist – I’m not impressed with my progress, but at least some of it can, and will, be eaten.
(The jury’s out on how much of it the 8-year-old will eat. The slugs will probably eat more)
Gardening is like writing:
If it goes well, your heart lurches with satisfaction as you sit sipping tea, enjoying the beautiful new thing as it takes on a life of its own.
If it goes badly, you lie awake at night calling yourself a twat for wasting the day and then you wait for tomorrow so you can put it right or start again.
Both give you backache and solitude, and require patience, staying power and biscuits.
(I took that photo a year ago. I knew I’d find a use for it some day)