What is this thing ‘we writers’ do?


The strangest week.

A mixture of highs and lows and then complete highs on a day I was inevitably sinking!

Just when you think you will not, cannot, shake yourself free of your own encumbering thoughts – along comes a lifeline. Thrown randomly from out of nowhere… not that I need to desperately cling…I was fairly happy drowning at that point – a slow, silent, descent into Nothingness.

And here it is: My reason for recovery – partial at least.

 

The Written Word.

 

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Anxiety vs Adventures anew


Its absolutely teeming down outside

Not a word I have heard in years! The wind is literally howling up from the harbour far down below where my cottage stands, aloof on the hillside. Eeerily I think of Irish banshees, calling, mourning, grieving for their lost.

There are clouds scudding across the sky and it feels so angry. Or is that just me?

Hence I stay home, 3 days now, cocooned in my bubble and next to my open fire, piling on more wood with each passing hour.

Building word upon word, with each new thought.

Its been a tough two weeks and I have no idea why – what triggered or sustained it to be so. Yet I do know I got through it. Again.

And here I appear to be – out the other side.

Yet still it rains.

Like a persistent drone in my ear, an unending melancholy song.

 

Time to stream something else. I need fun.

 

 

 

Falling off the edge of the sea…


An illogical premise?  A literal impossibility?

Yet that is how I feel.

A wide unending expanse of water beckons me, entices me. I go. I dance on the waves like one of them. I inevitably fall.

 

I just smashed a new plate. Well, not a new one exactly – but had only just unwrapped a few finds from an antique fair a few months back. How is it anything valuable, or unique, or promising I touch this year seems to disintegrate rapidly? Just an Italian blue and white, handmade, pottery plate. Yet still. Destruction of its unassuming and undeserving stencilled spectrum of blues and carefully placed white swirls that someone lovingly crafted – torn apart by ME in one, obliterating moment.

It seems all my over exerted optimism in my teens, twenties and 30s has somehow dissapated along with the disappointments of my 40s! A diluted pessimism that cannot even be bothered to raise its weary head either at times

 

I lit a fire tonight for the first time in months. There was a strange chill in the air despite the warm day and I needed comfort of a shape. The rise and fall of the flames is reassuring…somnambulistic in its drawing in of both the mind and your fascination.

I love that a dying ember can suddenly link to a stronger wood and flare up again unexpectedly, inexplicably. I love that it flares into life, burns then gradually dies. I love that with it and my candles lit and the arched windows wide open to tonight’s crazy storm here on the island it exonerates my pain, and rejuvenates my Soul. After a very tough few weeks it has almost exorcised some ghosts, and refuelled me in my beliefs.

 

” What if I fall?

Ah…but what if you fly?”

 

 

Go Litel Bok….


Well, its been well over a month since I wrote a thing!

Not a syllable. Nunca. De Nada.

 

After a madly prolific period in which I hardly slept and wrote till dawn mostdays I then fell into a kind of frozen limbo – not a good place to be when your anxietycan often scourge at your inner core as much as your hidden mind.

Something was triggered, and so began the endless, self imposed isolation; the enthusiastically made yet inevitably cancelled appointments; the languid routine of a ”writer’s day” with bouts of research and thinking interspersed with coffees, punctuated with lack lustre snacks yet not a word of print adorned the empty page.

On April the 10th I launched this.

The Cuckoo in Their Nest

Written 15 years ago, when I was living in a similar remote abode, and writing and home replaced nights out and social whirls – I could never decide! – and it was from a rather dark but rawly truthful place.  Not that much of my writing is not.

Coveted for years, I have always been reluctant to release my etchings on an unsuspecting, and perhaps unconcerned world. It always felt so personal and so private, like exposing my Soul to an undeserving – worse, possibly a non understanding and judgemental – audience!

Well, now it has finally been done.

Entrails and all.

 

The initial euphoria as I hovered above the self publishing key and the ensuing plethora of congratulations and sharp intakes of breath, encouraging reviews – even some tears – from close friends and family soon became tinged with a slight regret. Followed hot on its heels by overwhelming Anxiety.

I was, am, suddenly that 8 year old me again.

Afraid, insecure, grabbing at any attention freely given, lonely, isolated, even at such an early age reading and writing became my salve. Long periods of time would be spent alone in my room. Long silences. Who knew then that this was the beginning of the Anxiety that would then plague my entire Life. No labels back then.

girl in white and blue dress reading books while sitting on lawn

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The chatty, lively former me still wore her expected Mask. Still attempted to meet Their Expectations. Yet more and more she cared less and less. And yet cared too much.

The last few weeks have been ones of deep reflection with many uncalled flashbacks.

The book has clearly shifted the Past and unsettled its dormancy. Clouds of memory whisked up and uneasily resettling around me in the Present.

Yet it has been necessary at this point to finally release who I really was.

Who I really am.

I await some recriminations and maybe some Hurt. I carry Hurt within me still but it is not the work of a Victim. Just the truth of a child who clearly still dwells within me.

 

So, in the words of Chaucer –

“Go litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye,”

― Geoffrey ChaucerTroilus and Criseyde

 

and do what you will.

willow that grow along the river

Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

 

 

 

 

 

Reblogging a wonderful lady’s post to inspire you all. She runs our amazing local Writer’s Group – and as you will see – so much more! Well done Krissy!


We’ve all experienced that ‘New Year, what am I doing with my life’ moment. It took a mountain for me to realise what I needed to do, but all you need is some scissors and glue.

via Why you don’t need a mountain to change your life – but it helps — Krissy Lloyd

NApoWRImo! Jumping on the bandwagon day 10 – not that I procrastinate much.


Somehow I missed the build up – and the launch to this months National Poetry Writing month – time to join the hype!

I have read some wonderful poetry tonight and been inspired by all the past prompts but decided to start today with prompt 10.

It called to me and reminded me of a song my daddy used to sing long ago. And then my brother.

The idea of simultaneous events has always fascinated me and I often match past actions with a new friend or lover to see where we both may have been at the same time, say , 10 years ago and have often discovered we were in the same place or passing by yet never met till now. Or equally find that we could never have met as our lives were on very different parallels at that point. Veering toward the inevitablility – or chance? – coincidence? – of meeting one day.

Enough to-do! Its 330a.m in the Uk .

Here is my poem.

 

 

As I lay wakeful, twisting in my insomnia, my insomnambulistic unbliss,

You lay sleeping, curled, as ever, in your embryonic stance.

As this island lays peaceful, lapped by familiar waters, its coastlines quiet yet bathed in Spring moonlit rains

Your mainland is crashed, smashed, with the continual onslaught of doubt.

We are but two worlds in between, a non-collision of existences, never the twain shall meet.

 

Passing passengers in the jaded journey, eyelids flicker and glance away

Meeting Souls on deserted pavements, footsteps falter then run away

We head home with our bubbles, we see all yet encounter none

Are we aware this is our trouble, our loss, our lack of home.

 

As I fall weary, into sleepless dreams

You rise quickly, life ripped at the seams.

As this world keeps turning, this nation of extremes

A global manifestation, nothing ever as it seems.

 

Lives passing lives. Dreams outstripping Dreams. Fate tempting Fate.

 

What will be, will be.

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