How Not To Write.

Or how to find joy in an unstable world.

(Me and my dogs in Cornwall. Only one of us ate so much sand that they threw up afterwards.)

In my whole adult life, or at least my whole working life since university, I have never written as little as I have written this year. From 1992 I was a newspaper journalist, churning out acres of text each day, and from 2000 I was a novelist, one who considered 1000 words a day the very minimum, amateur-level, if you like, and then I became a screenwriter on top of that, with my projects running concurrently. I did not stop for babies, or sickness. I did not miss deadlines. I once went straight back to work having spent the night beside a paediatric hospital bed, pausing only to change clothes in the ladies toilets. I did not stop.

But not this year. I wrote the best part of half a novel before Christmas, took time away from it as I toured to promote the last one, had a holiday, sorted out a lot of personal stuff, dipped half-heartedly in and out of it for April and May, took most of June off for various work and travel events, and then at the start of this month, sat back down to write.

Or at least I re-read my novel again, and thought about it, and then re-read it again, wrote a Substack or two, and then … kept finding other things to do.

Writers are generally world-class procrastinators. I am not. Around 2017, when I was at the height of my workaholism, a male writer friend jokingly called me “a machine”. I took it as a compliment. Looking back, I think it probably wasn’t. But what I did was write; regularly, unstoppably. When I have been depressed, or uncertain, short of time or stretched to my limits, I have written. It is what I do to feel like me. If I’m honest, there have been times where I have felt (curse you, Protestant work ethic!) as if time not spent writing was time somehow wasted. Isn’t that terrible? I came of age in the 80s, what can I say?

I also struggled with the idea of holidays. I cannot remember taking more than ten days off consecutively since the turn of the century. In 2017 - and I’m not proud of this - I took one week off all year. )We went to Lisbon, I was giddy with excitement, and two days in everyone except the youngest got food poisoning. He spent five days gaming and living off room service - he still lists it as his best holiday ever). I did more recently plan to take a sabbatical, but instead I got divorced, my mum died and we had a global pandemic. Yes I’m being glib, but I didn’t even think about rescheduling. It felt like God’s way of telling me just to get on with it.

I have even felt occasional physical anxiety if not working; my fingers feel jittery and I feel weirdly restless. I have been told I am grumpier; I definitely feel untethered.

Yet this is what I have done in July instead of writing: got three piercings (why yes I am old enough to know better); helped my daughter adopt a half-tailed cat; ridden a horse in fancy dress in torrential rain; helped with an 8 year old’s four hour birthday party, tuned my garage into a gym, been to the movies, had some business meetings, walked my dogs 800 times, had a mammogram (can you make your machines softer one day please?), read some books, chatted to servers in my local cafes, cut down some diseased hedging, stayed up late, went swimming in Cornwall, accidentally opened a neighbour’s bill for “semen storage” (eek), made some new friends, continued my unbroken 45 day Duolingo run of Portuguese (Otimo!) and failed to paint my toenails.

I can’t fully explain why I wasn’t writing. I will admit that current world events often conspire to make it feel a bit pointless (at least until I remind myself that it is also necessary for people to feel joy). I love my novel. I am not suffering from writers’ block. So it has only occurred to me as I write this that it’s possible that for the first time in my adult life, I have just been enjoying … living.

It’s not just the awfulness of global events. There is a saying - probably not a very nice one - that your 50s is when you start living in Sniper’s Alley. There is nothing like seeing beloved friends or relatives get sick, or immobilised by chronic illness, to make you doubly appreciate your capacity to travel, or eat a nice meal in a restaurant, or even just move unaided. I am one of those nauseating people who compile a mental gratitude list every night before I go to sleep (I’m really sorry but do try it, it actually helps) and mine these days are frequently so very mundane. Met good friend for supper, fed the two crows who recognise me on the Heath, sang while driving home, ate a delicious pudding. I have had an entirely satisfactory few months just… being. I know my agent and publishers will probably read this - so I’m pausing to say “don’t panic! Nothing essential has changed!” But it has been revelatory, allowing myself to have long lunch breaks, or get up early to go ride my horse, or saying yes to weekends away. It feels like my nervous system has been quietly resetting itself. Perhaps it is long overdue. In an age of darkness, sometimes it feels radical just to determinedly take pleasure in small things.

Still finally, this week, when I could evade it no longer, I went to my office, sat down at my desk and told myself it was time. I was not moving until I had written some words. I am a grown-up with a job and responsibilities. I re-read my work in progress (again). It’s not perfect, but then nothing is at this stage of the game.

I scanned my big A5 pad, on which I scribble extracts of scenes and character studies, and my brain cells began to recall the shape of this story as I had envisaged it. I went through my notes, reminding myself of each of my chatacters, and with the benefit of a little distance, started thinking about who needed redrawing slightly. And then I made myself the first of many coffees, and I started work again. (In the interests of clarity, I feel I should add here that I am still way ahead of deadline. Some habits can never be entirely broken.)

I have written six thousand words so far this week. It’s been lovely. My dormant writing muscles have been flickering back into life. My characters are slowly emerging from the foggier parts of my brain and insisting on things. They are gaining clarity and colour, stumbling into scenes a little less like a zombie might and some have even made me laugh occasionally. Every day that I head to work, it becomes a little easier; my subconscious has started solving problems while I’m away from my desk. Work has begun, yet again, to feel like a refuge, a welcome friend.

I know I am lucky to have been able to have this breather. I have other projects I’m going to have to start work on too, and no doubt in a month or two I will. feel overworked, a bit stressed and will be cursing my Yesterday Self for not saying no to more things. But I’m so glad I took the time out (except for the tragus piercing, that was a mistake).

And for the moment I’m just really enjoying being a writer again, in my book, immersing myself in a non-existent world.

I hope you’re having a lovely summer.

Jojo x