“The door we never opened”- how poetry heals past and present for a better future. by Vivienne Tuffnell

LGGToday on Nowriggling I am thrilled to have a guest post by Vivienne Tuffnell. Viv has written for me before, not least as part of Dandelions & Bad Hair Days (I have to thank her for that title) and more recently blogging on Words are tools of healing when she published a collection of her essays as Depression and the Art of Tightrope Walking. 

Here she writes on a subject very close to her (and my own) heart – poetry. Readers of my blog will know that just six weeks ago I lost my much loved Mum, and I gained solace reading Viv’s recently published novel Little Gidding Girl. I have reviewed it on both Amazon and Goodreads now, with 5* both times and I would heartily recommend it to anyone who likes a book to challenge and move them and at the same time be a rollicking good readHere she describes how important the reading, and writing, of poetry, is to her and how it inspires her work.

I’d like to thank Suzie for hosting this post on her fabulous blog. It’s a great treat to have a friend who loves poetry as much as I do. Though our tastes in poetry differ a little, they overlap in quite considerable ways and we both believe that poetry is important, vital even, to the development and well-being of us poor naked apes.

You might know of German poet Goethe’s smash-hit book “The Sorrows of Young Werther,” a melodramatic tale of a poetically-inclined young man and his sad fate. But did you know that this wildly-popular book spawned so many copycat suicides that it was actually banned? It was seen as the ultimate in romance and despite the ban, sold in numbers equivalent to today’s bestsellers written by Dan Brown and E.L. James.

The power of the written word has never waned, but the acceptance of pure poetry as its primary form has been lost. Young people are made to study poetry for exams and it’s rare for them to continue to read and explore poetry after those exams are over. Those same young people will devote the energy instead to the music that they love because it speaks to them.

Many people see poetry as an irrelevance, a luxury of the few folks able to get to grips with it, but poetry has gone underground and has become lodged in popular music rather than the pages of dusty old books. Song lyrics ARE poetry and like the poetry found on the page, they are as subject to as many variations. From the profound to the banal, from the lyrical to the grating, popular songs get into the consciousness of youth today the way poetry did a hundred years ago.

Yet there’s always a few for whom pure poetry becomes an essential part of their psyche and self-expression. Growing up, I was one of them. Geeky would be the word used now but when I was 17, the word didn’t exist (as far as I know) and we’d be called swots and weirdos instead. For me, poetry said the things that I didn’t know how to express. Not being in the slightest bit musical, I was baffled by the popular music at the time, and when I sought to deconstruct lyrics to better understand the music, I was called strange. I wrote a bit of poetry and a lot of fiction, but it was crowded out by exam pressure, and the last piece of fiction I wrote in my teens was the first version of The Hedgeway, completed not long before I turned 18.

I studied English and Latin at university and I was overwhelmed with the sheer weight of brilliant poetry and literature to such an extent that it was years before I began writing again. I was a new mum with a small baby when I returned to fiction, and I was in my late thirties when I began to explore poetry again. I only got into my stride again then because poetry became the only way I could express the tumult of emotions and experiences and visions I’d become subject to. The terrible mixture of dreams, imaginings, mental wanderings I experienced at that time coalesced around a single volume of poetry, one I’d come to many years after university. Four Quartets seemed to contain everything, hinted at and referred to obliquely, that my restless mind was trying to get at, and up popped a title: Little Gidding Girl. I had no idea what it meant.

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Vivienne

In the grip of a flood of creative energy that I’ve never come close to again, during those three years I wrote more than I’ve ever written since. Novel after novel just poured out of me, the words long dammed up. In Little Gidding Girl  I tried to explore the painful, poignant memories of being 17 and the frustrations and triumphs of being 37, and the world between the two ages, with all its losses and gains, destroyed dreams and false starts and betrayals. To create a novel that somehow married the two people I had been and was now, needed something that transcended my own experiences and psyche and it was Four Quartets that offered the link between those two eras of my life.

 

To find out more go to the Amazon page for Little Gidding Girl HERE. 

Caitlín Matthews, author of Singing the Soul Back Home, and Diary of a Soul Doctor has said of Little Gidding Girl:

From the unknown spaces between what is, was, and will be, messages and sendings break through into Verity’s life: are they nightmares of a parallel reality or projections from a love that has flown? Vivienne Tuffnell keeps us guessing with utmost artistry as we trace the interweaving way-marks in pursuit of the truth. Little Gidding Girl kept me enthralled until the very end.’ –

 

 

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Posted in Books, Guest posts, Literature, Mental health, Poetry, Reading, Reviews, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments

‘After great pain’…On loss and grief and working my way through it…

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My mum, Stella, in a typical pose…

Some of those who read my blog will remember that about 18 months ago I wrote a piece about my dear old Mum,  and my feelings at being left a middle-aged orphan as mum kept saying she had ‘had enough’ and was beginning to seem truly ‘old’. She began to appear frail, a word you would never have previously used of Mum and regular infections were bringing her low – physically and mentally. In the last 18 months we have had some good times, and some very bad ones, but mum always seemed to pull through. Five weeks ago she was struck down once again, and this time there was no pulling through. She died, peacefully, on the 30th May.

Peacefully at the end maybe, but the previous three days over the Whitsun Bank Holiday had been very distressing for Mum and left my brother, sister and I traumatised by an experience that saw us grieving and exhausted, having stayed with her for 3 days and nights, sleeping when and where we could. There was nothing noble in any of this. It was horrible and we had no kindness to share with each other as we focused all our efforts on being there for mum.

We did, of course, realise she was not going to be with us forever, and indeed there have been times in the past year when we wished Mum could have slipped away without suffering. But instead of that gentle acceptance of the inevitable, the quiet grieving, we were left in shock.

DickinsonSo as always, I have turned to poetry to help me feel I am not alone, and there isn’t anyone better than Emily Dickinson to express that numbness I have been left with – the funeral has been and gone, we have said our goodbyes, and ‘did her proud’ and I for one now feel utterly lost.

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes

By Emily Dickinson

After great pain a formal feeling comes–
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions–was it He that bore?
And yesterday–or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow–
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

Dickinson describes how I am ‘going through the motions’ perfectly in the second verse. The third I am a little ambivalent about, as it suggests there is the possibility of being so overwhelmed by one’s grief that outliving it might not be possible. The last two lines might even describe how final that grief could be – as exposure overwhelms the person trapped, perhaps in the freezing wilderness of their loss.

I am sure that I will outlive this. I know this is all a natural process, and I know from my own experience of depression that this grieving is something quite different, but it is a struggle to keep anxiety levels under control as emotions are so near the surface and I am relying on reserves built up through a successful final year of therapy. I need that reserve to be like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag – bottomless.

My wonderful husband and friends have listened as it all comes out in a splurge – all the horror and unhappiness and frustration and deep, deep grief at the loss of someone who was such an important figure in my life. Sleep has been difficult and dreams have been horrible; not all related directly to Mum they leave me waking with a sense of dread that stays with me for some time afterwards.

And there is also a sense of grief at the knowledge that, in the order of things, it is my turn next, I am ‘top of the tree’. Of course, I hope it is many years until that is a worry, but a long life like my Mum’s isn’t a given. This would be the moment to say ‘treasure every minute’ ‘live in the moment’ and tens of other inspirational phrases. But I can’t say very much at all. There is a lot written about the stages of grief, but I don’t know where I am, let alone what stage I am at. Basically it seems you just have to crack on until, as Emily Dickinson suggests,  survival is possible.

So that is what I will do.

 

 

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Memories of Murder – A Victorian Supersleuth at work once again…

Today I welcome author Angela Buckley to No Wriggling once again. Previous posts have described her work researching Victorian detective Jerome Caminada, The Real Sherlock Holmes and on Amelia Dyer, the 19th century baby farm murderer. Her new book is inspired by her childhood in the suburbs of Manchester, and the intriguing case of the murder of police constable Nicholas Cock. Read on to find out how her memories have resulted in a fascinating new book, out this week…

Whether it’s truth or fiction, crime continues to pique our interest and grab our fascination, from the initial shocking scenes, through the unfolding investigation, all the way through to the final revelation of the killer. As a writer, certain real-life crimes stand out for me; they seem to ‘call’ me, tempting me to open a specific case that has long been forgotten. That call is even more powerful when a crime has taken place in a place I know.

West Point 1926

The junction of West Point pictured in 1926 – the post office is in the row of shops

The second crime in my Victorian Supersleuth Investigates series, is particularly relevant for me, as it happened close to where I grew up in Old Trafford, in the suburbs of Manchester. In the early 1980s, I had a Saturday job in a post office, just around the corner from my family home. Every week I sat behind the stationery counter, gazing out of the large glass windows, watching the traffic pass by as I waited for customers to buy envelopes and greetings cards. At the time, I had no idea that I was staring at a murder scene from almost a century earlier.

CoverIt wasn’t until I began researching and writing about Victorian crime that this terrible incident came to light. In fact, I can’t quite recall exactly when I first heard about it. It has been loitering at the back of my mind for a long time, waiting for its turn to be brought back to life. I finally opened the case files and discovered exactly what happened on a dark night in 1876, when a young police officer was murdered in cold blood. Through contemporary newspaper accounts, trial records and many overlooked documents, this extraordinary story has gradually taken shape through intriguing clues, compelling witness testimonies and the twists and turns of a sensational police investigation.

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P.C. Cock

On 1 August 1876, PC Nicholas Cock was walking his beat at midnight. When he reached the junction of West Point (the location of the post office where I worked) he stopped to chat with a colleague and a passing law student. A few minutes after the three men had gone their separate ways two shots rang out in the dark. Constable Cock took a bullet to the chest and, shortly after, died of his injuries. His superior officer, Superintendent James Bent of the Lancashire Constabulary knew exactly who the culprits were and instantly set out to frame them for his officer’s murder. This complex case led to a murder conviction, a race to spare a young man from the gallows and an astonishing confession by a notorious burglar.

Since writing about this fascinating case, I often think of young PC Cock when I visit my parents who still live in my childhood home. The garden wall against which he fell has long gone, as well as most of the original buildings at the junction, but I can still stand outside the post office and imagine that dark night a century before. Many of the pubs where the suspects used to drink are still there, as is the memorial stone over Nicholas Cock’s grave on Chorlton Green. I’m glad that, after 140 years, I’ve had the opportunity to share his tragic story, which is intrinsically linked with my own past.

 

Childhood (1)My sincere thanks to Angela for writing for my blog. Who Killed Constable Cock? by Angela Buckley is out now in ebook and paperback. You can find out more about Angela’s work on her website, www.angelabuckleywriter.com and on her Facebook page Victorian Supersleuth.

 

Posted in Books, Crime, Guest posts, History, Reading, Victorian History, Victorians, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

Sharing Shelley’s moonbeams…

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Percy Bysshe Shelley

My poor neglected blog – again. There are no excuses, but there are reasons, this time anyway. My mum died two weeks ago now. The funeral was less than a week ago and frankly, it is all still too raw to write about, and I am not sure you would want to hear it anyway. One day perhaps…

But I felt I had to write something today, about love, about yearning and about the possible joy love can bring. Losing someone is terrible, the pain such a contrast to happier times. The world seems a desperate place at the moment. We are surrounded by terrible images, endless news ‘updates’ that seem almost to glory in the horrors human beings are facing. We long to help, do what little we can and then watch others seeming to do so much more. How tiny and inadequate one can feel at the moment. We live fast-paced lives as if we are immortal, yet death is all around us and frighteningly close.

But we are surrounded by love too if we can but see it.

TR

Tom Riley in Lewis

One of my favourite poems is not, believe it or not, by John Keats. Called Love’s Philosophy it is by his contemporary, however, and fellow Romantic, Percy Bysshe Shelley. I don’t read much Shelley, to be honest. He wrote ‘Adonais’, an elegy on the death of Keats which, however well meant,  was no small part of the early movement that saw Keats depicted, quite wrongly, as a rather fragile man, incapable of taking the criticism without swooning and dying. However, I was drawn to this poem by an episode of the crime drama Lewis called ‘And the moonbeams kiss the sea’, which featured a rather lovely performance by actor Tom Riley as an autistic artist, innocently forging letters in Shelley’s hand. This poem is quoted in what has turned out to be one of the best episodes of a fantastic series, and turning to my poetry shelves I read it in full and fell in love with it immediately.

Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea –
What is all this sweet work worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Full of dreamy innocence, whilst at the same time using the laws of the natural world as a means of seduction, the second stanza strikes me as one of the most captivating expressions of the potential joy of love. Those images of nature as lover are irresistible and lead inexorably to that last line, which charms as it pleads. It is simple and lovely.

It may seem odd to share a poem such as this when I am experiencing a personal loss, and so many others are staring into an abyss. However, it is now that our love for one another is often shown most clearly.

After all, what is the point of all the wonders of the world if we can’t, simply, love one another?

Posted in Books, Literature, Poetry, Random musings on family life, love the universe and everything, Reading, Romanticism, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

‘Delicious drowsiness’ – John Keats on the importance of sleep…

Keats and sleep

The Moon & Sleep by Simeon Solomon

I have often written of the relevance of the poet John Keats to readers in the 21st century – in fact, I am publishing a collection of pieces on that theme (mainly drawn from this blog and those posts written for The Wordsworth Trust) shortly. So when I was sitting ruminating on my rather odd sleep patterns of late, who should I once again turn to? You’ve guessed it…

‘Delicious drowsiness’ is a comment made by Andrew Motion in his fabulous biography, Keats, where he discusses a sonnet – To Sleep –  written by the poet in April 1819 (a year in which his genius developed rapidly). It has always been a favourite of mine, as the language is, I think, delicious. Read it aloud, or under your breath and feel the words in your mouth, and on your lips…

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
      Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light,
      Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
      In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the “Amen,” ere thy poppy throws
      Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
      Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
      Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

 

Technically Keats was working with, but not adhering strictly to, the Shakespearean sonnet form and the language used is gentle and the vowels long, creating that ‘delicious drowsiness’ Motion refers to. There is some debate about the meaning, and whether it refers to death, as well as or instead of, sleep. Certainly, the words ’embalmed’ and ‘casket’ can be suggestive of finality, as can the shutting of the eyes in the early lines;  the still recent death of his brother Tom was on Keats’s mind throughout that great year of poetry.  This sonnet can also be seen as reminiscent of some of the lines in Keats’s Ode to a Nightingaleparticularly  the sixth stanza:

 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy!
         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

 

Melancholy, but accepting of death; longing for a painless end, drifting off to the sound of the nightingale. Such is the end he would have wanted for his brother.
However, since my early teenage years and discovery of Keats as ‘my’ poet, I have always thought of this poem as a hymn to sleep as relief from anxiety and worry.  My lifelong struggles with anxiety (well documented on this blog) continue, so I cling to lines such as ‘Then save me, or the passed day will shine/Upon my pillow, breeding many woes’  and ‘Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole’ as indicative of Keats’s ability to describe an eternal truth. How many of us have not experienced at least one night when sleep won’t come, and all the worries of our world come marching in, magnified and determined to disrupt our rest still further? We thump our pillow in frustration, toss and turn and long for something that will help us nod off – whether it be a book, hot drink or a sleeping tablet (that poppy with its ‘lulling charities’).

Sleep and Keats

Sleeping in Poppy Field, E. J. HARRINGTON

The beginning of the poem, rather than a reference to death, makes me think of that wonderful sleep of childhood, when a story is told, the light is turned out, and some magic makes our eyelids heavy and ensures any worries disappear.
Sleep is a time for healing. Physically it is vital to our health and well-being. It can also offer us a brief respite from the concerns of everyday life. It can be a joyful feeling, shared in the arms of someone we love. Observing it in our children can be, outside that natural sense of relief at the peace we craved after a long day, a deeply moving experience, highlighting the innocence of the young, and their (hopefully) carefree existence.

 

But in To Sleep, it is the last line that has always sent a shiver down my spine – of pleasure rather than fear. Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards/And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul rival those other great lines in the second stanza of Nightingale…

 

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
        And purple-stained mouth
and those in The Eve of St Agnes:

 

  And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
       In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d,
       While he forth from the closet brought a heap
       Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
       With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
       And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;

 

… for their sheer sensuousness, and the pleasure they offer the reader willing to speak them aloud (in private if you must!). Don’t you agree? Have you others to rival these?
There are a number of memorable descriptions of sleep, or the longing for it, in Keats’s poetry and it is, I think, something we would all do well to turn to at times when our own conscience ‘burrows’, like that mole, under our mattresses and denies us that longed for unconsciousness.
      
Posted in Art, Books, Keats, Literature, Mental health, Poetry, Reading, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

My fundraising challenge – The Ullswater Way ‘Hike for Hospices’.

ullswater-way-map2On the 22nd and 23rd of May 2017, I am undertaking what is a significant challenge – for me anyway. I will be attempting to walk the 20 mile ‘Ullswater Way‘ in the Lake District, over two consecutive days,  to raise money for St Margaret’s Somerset Hospice and Hospice at Home Carlisle and North Lakeland. Both are charities dear to my heart, as they provide much-needed support and treatment to those with the chronic, and disabling, condition known as lymphoedema. You can access my fundraising page HERE, but I would really appreciate it if you could read on. So many still don’t know about lymphoedema and we need to change that. As a writer, I am lucky to have a platform to tell you more, so thank you for taking the time to read on.

Lymphoedema can be ‘primary’ (caused by faulty genes that affect the development of the lymphatic system, developing at any age, but most often during adolescence, or early adulthood) or ‘secondary’ (caused by damage to the lymphatic system or problems with the movement and drainage of fluid in the lymphatic system, most often caused by cancer treatment or as a result of injury). Symptoms include an aching, heavy limbs causing mobility problems, repeated, and potentially very dangerous, skin infections (cellulitis), hard, tight skin which can develop in folds and start to leak fluid, and wart-like growths. There is no cure, only management  (including compression garments and massage to encourage drainage) and many are still not able to access regular treatment, despite greater awareness of the problem following treatment for breast and other cancers.

downloadI am one of those who has needed that treatment desperately. Diagnosed, after horrible tests at the Royal Free Hospital in London, with the primary form of lymphoedema aged just 19, I was faced with a lifetime of treatment for something most doctors then had little knowledge of. I was always ashamed of my legs, which I was bullied about as ‘fat’, and found it really hard to get clothes, especially trousers, to fit (thank goodness for lycra). It was only when I moved to Somerset in 2001 that I got proper care – at St Margaret’s Hospice in Somerset –  and, for the first time in my life, could manage the pain, swelling and frequent infections that had plagued me for so many years. I saw a genetic counsellor, who confirmed that I had inherited the condition  from my father’s side of the family, and that my poor dad, and my aunties, (whose feet we always gazed at, as they oozed swollen and painful from their shoes) had gone through life undiagnosed and in significant discomfort. I discovered that my children had a 50/50 chance of inheriting it, but mercifully neither shows symptoms yet.

phpThumb_generated_thumbnailMany people who know me have no idea that I have lymphoedema now, but over the years I have had to get used to talking about it, and being ‘out there’ with it, to raise awareness. I have had the massage and the daily bandaging, as well as the ‘pump’ treatments and we all have to wear the most hideous compression hosiery every day (stockings and crotchless tights of the type we must endure have never been sold in Ann Summers…). They are horrible when it is hot, and I also have to be constantly vigilant for bites and scratches that easily lead to potentially life-threatening infections (I have antibiotics for emergencies instead of an epipen, for example). However, hiding my legs when others are wearing shorts seems a small price to pay when the alternative is days unable to put a foot to the floor.

C6PHNjWWcAAnvnwIn 2008 I did my ‘Suzie walks North with Keats’ challenge and raised £4000 in funds for the hospice and for the wonderful charity that supports us, The Lymphoedema Support Network. I was also seeking to raise awareness of the condition by walking a total of 100 miles in the Lake District over the course of a year in the footsteps of my favourite poet. This was just after I had finished treatment for breast cancer, and was therefore at risk of developing secondary lymphoedema as well. Mercifully my brilliant specialist nurse team have made sure all eyes are out for any symptoms and after 10 years I am cancer free and have no signs of lymphoedema in my arm. However, many women still live with the consequences of having lymph nodes removed as part of their cancer diagnosis, and as happened to me, they can find the condition seriously affects their mental health.

Ullswater autumnNow in my 50s, I needed another challenge to keep the vital exercise programme going and ensure I give myself the best possible chance of staying healthy. I have been walking regularly (poor Barnaby dog is worn out) and have lost 3 stone in the past year and nothing inspires me more than the opportunity to take a good long walk in the Lake District. The Ullswater Way, at 20 miles, is just that. It is also in an area hard hit by the most recent flooding and has its own reasons to promote awareness of what is still very much a working community reliant on, but not wholly devoted to, tourism. I will be walking with two brothers in law and my lymphoedema nurse, Ali Batchelor, who has, quite literally, saved me from much greater disability over the years. The service she is part of, at St Margaret’s, is in dire need of additional funding, managed as it is by a charity, rather than by the NHS. The same applies to Hospice at Home Carlise and North Lakeland, who provide a similar service in the area where the walk takes place.

StmargI have set up a fundraising page at www.virginmoneygiving/suziegrogan and it would be fabulous if you could see your way to sponsoring me.  I am lucky to have access to such wonderful care. Others are not so lucky and I am hoping this walk will raise much-needed cash, and awareness of a condition still little understood and frequently poorly treated.

hospice-at-homeI know times are tough, financially and emotionally, and I do not underestimate the calls on our purses, and our hearts. But if you can help I would be SO grateful and even the smallest amount can make a real difference.

Thank you!!

Posted in Breast cancer, Charity Walk, Health, lymphoedema, Medicine, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

On struggling with the writing life – again

writing

My thoughts, indeed.

I still seem to get a fair few hits on this, my blog. Not that I deserve them. No wriggling out of writing has been sorely neglected of late as I struggled with the first edits of my forthcoming book, (Death, Disease & Dissection to be published by Pen and Sword Books in October). My mum has been poorly too, and my sister and I have been spending more time with her in the hope that she can find at least a little joy in her life.

I have to be honest though. I have been endlessly wriggling out of writing, procrastinating at every opportunity and finding any excuse not to write. I have watched social media carefully, comparing myself to others and finding solace in their dilemmas, or berating myself for my lack of productivity. Author after author seems to have celebrated the release of yet another book or highlighted an article they have written. My pitching arm – the one that writes down the ideas that should be winging their way to commissioning editors has been, of late, disabled by the mental equivalent of a frozen shoulder.

I am an author and a published one, but it is hard to call myself a ‘writer’ unless I am writing so I need to get the word count up again. My imagination feels stifled, the door into the part of my mind I use as the boiler room for my creative work is firmly locked. Writing is an expression of myself, and has been used as therapy more than once, when I have really needed to speak to the world about something that is important to me. The love of it must come back.

The world has been, and still is, an emotionally exhausting place to live in recent months, but with little hope of improvement in the near future I can no longer use the horror in Syria, the abject misery of Brexit or the hideous injustices perpetrated by Trump as a reason not to write.  But writing about those things seems too scary.  I sit with fingers on the keyboard ready to respond to the most recent news item and have literally to stop myself from exposing the raw edges of grief I feel to the whole world.

I have, as always, turned to poetry when feeling most frustrated. John Keats , in Endymion, wrote ”In spite of all/ Some shape of beauty moves away the pall/From our dark spirits.’ and I have to hang on to the thought that this fallow period will end. Only I can end it after all. I am, at least, reading a lot across different genres and still booking new writers onto my Talking Books radio show.  Other authors inspire as well make me feel, quite without intending to, like I need a good kick in the pants…

So, if there is still anybody out there reading this, rather self-indulgent post, here is my attempt at a plan. Some parts, driven by my publisher and the looming of deadlines, will be easier to bring to fruition. Others are all down to me, and I am hoping writing them down will help:

  1. Death, Disease & Dissection WILL be out in October of this year.
  2. My anthology of blog posts relating to John Keats(with a foreword by Lynn Shepherd who has published some of them on The Wordsworth Trust blog) will be completed by the autumn.
  3. I will post at least once a fortnight here on No wriggling out of writing, even if it is just to share a favourite poem or poet, or review a book.
  4. I will enter two competitions (short story or poetry) by the end of this year.
  5. I will update my website and get that newsletter OUT.

Does that sound a lot? Or not enough? How can I possibly know? I have to get proofreading work in, articles pitched and written and blogs for business done to earn at least something to pay the bills, but as someone who describes herself as a writer, I know the first step is to WRITE.

Brace yourself…

 

Posted in Books, Mental health, Reading, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 10 Comments