I’ve been saying for a while that I need some time and space to just get the hell on with writing. Yet, given both I have found myself uninspired to do so.
I think that is just me though and the way I work. I can go for ages without the will to rattle the keys or scribble away and then BAM. I can’t stop and will write 20,000 in a day.
Then I’ll get bogged down in details and edits and then lose the will to carry on for a bit. Then it all starts again.
I have to ‘stock pile’ my annual leave at work as I have a young daughter and if she gets sick, I have to use my annual leave to care for her. As she is little and gets everything going round at nursery, I always end up with time off. My husband has less leave than I do so I take the brunt of it. As she has gotten older, she is fighting illnesses a lot better and is over something in a couple of days (usually passing it onto me and I end up off for a week!). This therefore leaves me with a pile of annual leave to take at the end of March as it resets at the start of April.
I daren’t take the leave before the end of March in case she falls ill. It’s sods law really that as soon as I start being sensible with my leave – it goes tits up and she gets ill with something for a week. Not that I am moaning about caring for my daughter, oh no no no. Just setting the scene really for why I ended up with a bit of time on my hands recently.
I slept a lot – I mean A LOT. I’m endlessly tired. I know working 37 hour weeks for a pittance is probably nothing these days, but it is tiring stuff. I slept for most of the first week and it was just utter joy – letting my body relax and pottering around the house. It was 20 degrees outside and so I got loads of washing done and out on the line. I did some ironing and cleaned the house (not that you can ever tell after my daughter and husband get home!). Why did I not devote the time I had to writing then?
I think, like I said earlier, that I was simply not inspired or in the right mood. I can’t turn it on like a tap. I can’t just robotically sit down and write – that is just not how I do things. I can’t squeeze an empty tube and expect something to come out.
I think, for me at the very least, writing is a very organic process. It is like an entity that lives inside you in symbiosis. It gets tired, uninspired and maudlin like any person. Then it hits the Red Bull and you can’t see it for dust.
It is a very OCD compulsion, writing.
I’m just tired-out body and soul at the moment. I feel like my entire being is dry and flat like a piece of leather. I need to be filled and whole once more.
This time of year is very, very awful for me at the moment anyway. It is the 5th birthday and associated anniversaries of my two eldest daughters passing, which of course has turned me down to a lower level of being. You are expected to face these ‘sorts of things’ with a brave face and display a devil-may-care outlook. I cannot do that. I’m a wimp and a coward who is ‘not over it’. Morons who think you ever ever ever ‘get over’ losing a child should count their lucky stars that they think that way – because it means that they have never been there.
I won’t blame Lucy or Bryonie or Daisy. Nothing to do with me is their fault. I am just effected by them and I’m happy about that as their mother, all that is my job.
I think my writing will pick back up again soon – like it always does. So if you don’t hear from me for a bit, it’ll just be me, flagging behind the quick pace of my creativity, huffing and puffing to catch up with it.
Bear with me.