|Image: Life of Red|
I could make a promise that I intend to start blogging daily again, but that would be not so much a lie as rather a promise I would be unable to keep. Such are the way of things at the moment I am simply unable to commit time to writing a blog let alone write, and so I can only promise to make the attempt and thus try to get back into some form of routine, as far as this particular medium goes.
Life these past few weeks has been heavy. Writing is not something I’ve been able to indulge myself in, and in fact, my only literary activity has been reading, but only when the time allows. Other life priorities have taken over most of my time, and of the sort that leave me in the state of mind where writing fiction is just an impossibility.
I have been able to break free and allow myself periods of time to myself, but where I have these have really revolved around seeing friends and extended family.
I was at my sister’s last week; we went to see Shed Seven at the O2 Academy in Glasgow. I spent the night in the mosh pit taking out a lot of the anger that has built up in myself these past few weeks. It felt good and I really needed the release it allowed me.
This weekend I’ll be back through West. I’m going to see St Mirren play on Saturday followed by a Depeche Mode gig on the Saturday, then on Sunday my favourite band ever are coming to town—Madness—at the Academy. A small oasis in the desert of life’s crap.
As I write this there doesn’t seem a way back into my writing life; I know it’s there, I just can’t find it. There is not enough clarity nor a source inside my head. It’ll come—I have faith— and by writing this blog I’m actively trying to find it again. I aim to be back writing in some form for Christmas but I can’t be bound by it. There are too many other important things to handle at the moment. Simple as that. One must try, though, if only to preserve my own sanity,
I wish I could expand on things but I can’t. Just put it all down to one of life’s things that has to be dealt with above all others. If there is a God up there, though, he doesn’t half have a sick sense of humour.
Don’t beat yourself up, love. Take it each step at a time and the things you feel you ought to be doing may then sneak up on you and make you do them when you’re ready. You’ve given yourself another time limit – Christmas. Stop it, see how it goes. It WILL come. Meanwhile, enjoy whatever else you can at the moment. Spend time with the family, listen to music, go for a walk, watch a film, chill.
We’ll take some of the tension away on Sunday mate.
A few beers and a night to remember.
Just do what you can. Why don’t you give yourself a writing sabbatical until January? Take a month or six weeks or so of INTENDED time off, deal with what needs to be dealt with, and let the work build up again inside your head — but make a commitment NOT to write. Sometimes, taking intended time away from the page is the best way to build it up again, while if you keep pushing it off and trying to get to it, it causes more frustration and more internal pressure in a way that prevents you from writing.
Hang in there.
I’m witnessing many existential crises
this December (like the last). The bane
of the driven writer. I like empty winter
beaches. No clutter, a vacuum the muse
abhors. Get some open space and time.
Ashbery said something about the idea being
like a cat…you have to pretend not to
notice until it comes up and brushes your
leg…words to that effect.