I'll get the next round.

Sometimes in life, things happen which are staggeringly undramatic. So numbingly mundane that it becomes hard to describe them without undue fanfare. Words like “absent” or “attend” seem a little too ornate, and phrases like “had to” or “did not” pack too much punch for the occasion. And so it is hard to begin this little indulgence in a sufficiently understated way. “I have done it again” I started, before Plath echoed down the decades and into my delete key. One year in every ten. Too dire by far. “Oops, I did it again”. Too snake wearingly flash. “I wasn’t here?” Not too hot, not too cold. Just right?

I wasn't here. A week’s absence from Vocal is hardly something to write home about, but this is what we do, isn’t it. Write about the little stuff as well as the big. The little stuff is where the living is, after all. And I noticed some things. I am noticing some things. And I am curious to get your take on them.

A few weeks ago, I was consciously, deliberately, and very pleasurably off vocal for a couple of weeks. I went on holiday if you must know. And you probably do know, I mentioned it once or twice. When I returned I cranked up the engines and returned with an invitation to something communal, which I have to say, I love. I’d missed the creative back scratching here, the cooperative vying, the titillation of our writerly one anothers. Check it out, if you haven’t, I’m proud of it.

But then (where would the story be without a but then?), another week on and I was off. Again. Less consciously. Partially consciously, perhaps. I had stuff to do, a clutch of those mid-stack tasks that never quite make it to the top of the pile because they don’t threaten with their immediacy, but can’t remain undone forever. Like dusting for cobwebs (which, to be fair, I really ought to do). It’s not cleaning the toilet, but nor is it repainting the bathroom ceiling in the style of the Shah Mosque. And so I came off Vocal, so I could get shit done. I mothered myself. "You're not playing that game again until you've tidied your room and put your laundry away, you hear me?"

However, I noticed that I did not stop interacting with Vocal because I didn’t have capacity to write. No, I stopped interacting with Vocal because I didn’t have capacity to read. The notifications came in thick and fast, they always do. And I cancelled them all. Nope, can’t, won’t be, not today, sorry.

Now, we all need to do that, don’t we. Step out of the room, attend to other things. Hardly a sin. But what I found I couldn’t do is this. “Nope, can’t, won’t be, not today, sorry, take a look at my poem guys!” Most of us pay to be here, we can use the platform as we see fit, within the boundaries of its formal rules. But we are bound too by unwritten rules, and being unwritten rules, these differ for each of us. I’ve never tallied it, but I know my read count is quite considerably higher than my write count here, and I think many of us do something similar, and that is why the community works. No one keeps showing up at the pub without ever buying a round. And the first thing that I noticed was that when I can’t buy a round, consistently, for a good few days, I don’t feel comfortable drinking with you. Ah, we all have a day here and there where we are short, where we cover one another, but that can't go on forever. Few of us expect a free ride.

The second thing I noticed was that lost momentum matters. I’d florify that point, but let’s just leave it there, ugly, staccato, with a sense of insufficiency, like my writing vibe today, an illustration of its own validity.

The third thing was that I am anxious. And a bit depressed. Neither of these are unusual for me, I struggle with anxiety often, and can be Eeyore-esque in my world view at times. But I began to wonder, if I graphed my anxiety over the last year, whether the trend has been towards a lower baseline. I began to wonder if Vocal is….good for me? Of course, there is a chicken and egg argument here – has my anxiety edged up because I am not channelling my daily allocation of thoughts towards deliberate creativity, or has my Vocal use diminished because I am allowing my daily allocation of thoughts to expend themselves fruitlessly in creating scenarios of dread? And indeed a third option, let us all remember the mantra of the social sciences; “correlation does not equal causation.” Perhaps my Vocal use has diminished AND I am more anxious and ne’er the twain shall meet. I am intrigued though. Might writing have left me less space for catastrophizing? Or did something shift in my brain that said “nope, can’t, won’t be, not today, need all hands on deck to imagine pain and suffering befalling us all instead”.

So here is my little experiment with myself. I don’t feel like writing this today. I feel like playing mindless casual games on my phone whilst worrying about twelve different things and failing to get any work done. So what happens if I do write it? And what happens if I come back later and write again? And again tomorrow? I am tempted to whip out an anxiety scale and gather before and after measures, but it’s a bit late now, I’ve been writing this for twenty minutes and I wonder if I feel a little better already.

Hopefully see you all at the pub later then, yeah?