I struggle at this time of the year. Not so much with the shiny, squeaky new beginnings. More with maintaining a regular regime built on those rose-coloured fresh-out-of-the-box intentions.
At the start of a new year, my heart rebels against the traditions of diary
keeping, resolution making, to-do list mania. By just about now, I miss a day,
or several days, a week, and suddenly, the perfectionist in me feels it's getting left
behind on the starting blocks! Then the problem’s doubled with every passing day. The more I feel I’ve missed or dropped the ball while playing 'keepy-uppy', the more
overwhelming it seems to get 'back on track'. Crazy but true! I should resolve to
do better this year, but there I go again. It’s those darned resolutions that
seem to press the pause button on forward motion!
It can apply to all sorts. Diary entries. Blogging. Arbitrary targets. The more goals I set, the less I feel inspired. I'm one of those who thrives on wiggle room. Not least in writing. What about you? I find the ideas that get me buzzing come unbidden in the dead of the night, or after an hour in the silence, off piste, off the map, off the timetable.
Socrates, now. He didn't think much of writing. (Sorry, Soxy boy, I know that's an outrageous oversimplification!) He never wrote down his thoughts. It took his pupil
Plato, among others, to commit his master’s words to paper and hand them down to future generations. Socrates said (or was it Plato putting words in his mouth?) that writing things down leads to forgetfulness. For me, regimented writing, the diaries and the spreadsheets, just because night's turned to day or there's an r in the month, kills my vibe. Once pressure is off, I can gladly and gratefully scribble away at any hour of day or night.
Not writing things
down? No. Never going to happen. How do inspirations get processed and passed along if you don't record them somehow? Even when you have a Plato to your Socrates, you’re
dependent on the one who curates your content and on what they think you said. Socrates had his Plato,
so we know him principally that way, by pupil proxy. But at best, it's going to be lost in translation, whispered from lip to ear round the circle in a Victorian parlour game, emerging as something barely resembling the original.
Unlike Socrates, I can’t imagine not writing. It’s my
preferred way of relaxing, of challenging myself, of finding out what I actually think or feel or intuit and then sharing it, connecting with others. I have no plans to stop, even if I could!
I enjoyed
every second of writing my first novel, editing it, typesetting it, getting it out there,
blogging about its background and genesis. I enjoy sharing it. I enjoy the feedback. I
love that people enjoy it, or get frustrated at or enchanted by one of the characters.
I'm enjoying planning my second book, the writing, the letting it all coalesce and mature. Then come the expectations. As soon as you
realise other people are hanging on the hope of a sequel, the pressure is on, like the unwritten diary page or the missed appointment. We need to hang on mindfully to the truth that every word we write
is first for ourselves, then for others if they happen to choose to read it. We really need to
stop concerning ourselves, as writers, as humans, with what others think, or demand or expect.
Just breathe, one breath,
then the next breath and the one after that. One step, then the next, one foot in front of the other. One word, then another, then the one
after that. For the sheer joy of it, always.
Sometimes, we feel the pressure to match or compare one piece of writing with the next. Maybe we need to let go of wanting the present moment's project to
rival anything, but just to let what we produce become exactly what it needs to be, precious in its own right. Able to be graciously marinaded in the edit or fed without regrets into the shredder.
As I coax my characters through their story arcs, piecing together their universe, it’s as if I don’t want to let them down. The same with each poem. I want them to be
everything I desire for them, like children. Yet, like children, I know I just
have to bring them into the world, love them, nurture them and let them go, toddling out into print so they can be friends with people who haven't even met them yet.
A daily straitjacket, especially now my energy levels are so variable in chronic illness, sometimes trips me up or freezes me out from the fires of spontaneity . This year is going to be different! (Was that a pesky new year resolution, sneaking in, there?) It’s
down to me, calmly staying present, being very gentle and kind to
myself. Are you planning to give yourself the same TLC this year? Be your own best
encourager. Your own cheerleader. Go on, why not? Don't be so hard on yourself. Failure isn’t an option. Precisely because nothing is failure, unless you
label it so. This year, dear one, don't punish yourself. Rip up the calendar if you need to. Just never let your fire go out!
