It’s been a while since I have blogged on here and (it feels) even longer since I have written anything of any calibre. I could blame not enough time: I have three kids and a job to maintain on top of all the work I have been doing for Paper Swans. I could blame not enough inspiration: but inspiration surrounds me in jottings made in notebooks, on serviettes and on my iPad. I could blame not enough focus: yet I am driven. So, I find the only thing left to blame is myself. There is simply not enough of me to go around. I have spread myself thin, like marmite on soldiers, and I have been consumed. My brain feels saturated with thoughts, ideas, things to do, emails, deadlines; life. Somehow, the precious writing time I used to find for myself has disappeared and I am not sure where, when or how, but I feel bereft.
I think writing can be perceived as a selfish thing. One cocoons oneself in a bubble of words and expression and the outside world is cut off, which can really piss them off. Excuse my crudity, but it fits. If it were work emails I was battling with or a Waitrose order to feed the hordes, well, that’s OK. But it’s not either of those; it is poetry.
And that doesn’t seem to count.
It’s not worthy enough. It’s a waste of time.
Or, that’s how I feel. Guilty. For writing.
So, I figure, if I already feel guilty, I may as well have an affair. I need to find Mr Write. We can spend hours together; words and emotions, spilling into the wee small hours and finding that connection, that spark that makes it all worthwhile. I want my time back; those precious minutes of sanctuary, when I write because I need to – that urgency to get the words down lest they disappear in a mist of hubbub and noise and demands. That rolling wave of precious syllables which crashes through my mind and heart and is desperate to spill onto the paper.
This is a lot of lamenting. I’m just in one of those places. Come September, my youngest child starts school and I will have a day and a half each week to myself. Since I finish teaching at 1pm on a Wednesday and don’t get the kids ’til 4pm, I plan to ensconce myself in a cafe while I wait and write, write, write.
It’s a start.
Meanwhile, I have a late night affair to begin…