Writing - Not Writing

One of the ways I spend my time here is to come up to this room and write. On many mornings from 9ish to 12ish - not every day but many days  - I sit down at this table in front of the window, open the laptop or note book and . . .

. . . but it's really hard to talk about what I do here. Hard, these days, to think about writing, to face difficult thoughts and feelings about what I do and to share them with you, whoever you are. Far easier to look out of the window and watch the jackdaws arguing in the tree outside.These days this writing business is painful and to be honest, a lot of the time, I'd like to give it up. No more  sitting here alone struggling to make something out of nothing for hardly anybody to read. But then I think, if I didn't do this, who would I be? What else would I do? 



It's not that I'm bad at it. I can write a reasonable sentence, have a good vocabulary etc. etc. And words, stories, ideas, language, books - apart from  people, these are the things I've always loved best. And it's not that I haven't been published - nothing earth-shattering - but I've had quite a few stories and articles in magazines and books. I've won prizes, I taught writing for years and have edited and written books on writing, a second edition coming out next year . . . but still . . . 

It's not that I'm lazy - or that I don't actually write. I write lots - I've got notebooks and computer files stuffed full of stories, novel drafts, small and long articles, notes on writing, on life and the universe. Most of it never sees the light . . . and here I am again making more words - writing this - to myself, to you. It's hard to stop.

I feel like that character in a Samuel Beckett play who says I can't go on. I must go on . . .

In the tree outside the window the jackdaws have gone but there's a little flock of goldfinches flitting around the branches - beautiful busy little birds. See - I can do alliteration too. What more does a writer need?

For the past few months I've been writing this blog about being here in this village - the shock of the move, walking, countryside, weather, the flora and fauna which is all very well. There are only so many times you can write about fungi and sunshine, jackdaws and trees - unless you're a serious nature buff, which I'm not.

So I've decided, for at least some of the time, to write about what is at the centre of my life here - writing and not writing. There's this idea around that 'being creative/ being a writer/artist' is somehow rich and delightful. Quite a few people have often said to me how they'd love to do it themselves if only they didn't have to work at their job, do housework, look after their children. I used to think it myself, years ago, decades ago. But here I am now dreaming of a non-creative life - wishing I could just settle for simpler easier things, like baking a cake, planting a tree, watching the birds coming and going. 

I don't know yet whether this desire to stop is a negative, but temporary phase, a symptom of winter and some difficult family times. On the other hand it could be a healthy recognition of limits, a liberation. Maybe I just need the guts to call it a day and find more productive and pleasurable things to do with my precious and diminishing time.