I am so far behind with writing and the blog. Mainly because I don’t get any time, and if I do it’s eaten up with sterilising or washing. I really miss writing. I also miss having a functioning brain to write in the style I’m used to! Call me old fashioned but I like to write by hand and then I transfer it onto screen. I just can’t get the flow when I sit in front of a key board. Perhaps that would be an issue if I were to ever pursue writing as a career, I’d be dead by the time each page of my novel made the journey from dog eared exercise book to screen.
Each of those note books has it’s story not just between the pages but across their covers. When I pull one off our book shelf I might not remember what is written inside but I certainly remember which months or years they are from. They almost soak up the atmosphere and emotions of the time. And are littered with short shopping lists and scrawled appointment times. If I was to write a book one day, I would kind of like for those to be in there, in the margins or even a page to themselves.
I often hop out of a note book and into another because sometimes they hold writings from a difficult time. Cutting loose and into a fresh book can feel cathartic. A fresh start. Writing tools are often used as a fresh start too. Sometimes I like to rough it and scribble away with a biro. Other times I like to select the right pen. Or even switch to a pencil which is always good. Until they go blunt.
Given that I am behind with writing, dithering between notebooks and wrestling with time, I found a pencil under the bed whilst laying on the bedroom floor crying. Crying through sheer exhaustion, through fear and pressure, the relentless tournament of looking after a tiny person and feeing like I am losing every round. I saw this pencil looking at me, looking at it, beneath the bed, next to some pants. Are they my pants? I wondered where they’d gone. I reached out and rescued the HB and placed it on my bedside table, as a beacon of a new age- I WILL begin to write again before my brain dries up.
I was trying to deny my bout of writers block. My bout of writers block so closely linked to my bout of depression following the birth of my very much wanted and long awaited, little boy (who I can report is a gorgeous, happy 9 week old baby who likes to pee up his nursery wall at nappy changes). I feel such shame about both of them. The shame of feeling depressed when we have a miracle baby after losing Robyn. I want to write about the sadness and shame but I struggle to find the words because I’m depressed and exhausted, which makes me feel further depressed because I can’t.
How do I climb up and out of this subterranean trap? Maybe I need to embrace any pencil, any pen, any paper and just write without judgement.