Time to Breathe

I've been doing a lot of deep thinking lately. I'm not usually prone to this. I tend to be an "acknowledge it and move on" type of girl, but lately, I've found myself returning more and more to my introspective self and asking myself a lot of questions.

Those of you who regularly read my writing may have picked up on this, although maybe not as I'm not a big sharer really, and I haven't been explicit as such. For instance, I didn't take part in Kayleigh Fraser's "Getting To Know You" challenge although I toyed with it for a bit.

But more and more, my writing on here, especially my poetry has been an outlet for my frustration.

The irony is, is that it is my writing that is at the root of it all: my frustration stems from that.

***

I love writing and it is something of which I have become increasingly more conscious in the last six months as my creations have received consistent praise from readers and I have basked in the glory of positive comments. Everyone loves to be appreciated, after all. I do feel like I write for myself but gaining momentum on Vocal where more stories have been chosen for Top Story and people have upvoted my works in the "Raise Your Voice" thread on Thursdays and in Discord chats - well, these sort of approvals could go to a girl's head.

However, something has shifted in me as a result of this and I have been trying to reconcile how I feel for weeks, maybe even months now, to try and get over it and stop it dominating my thoughts, and I have finally come to the realisation that it is writing that is the cause of it.

It is not the process. I have no problem with the process at all. I could reel off stories all day long. I am full of them and see them everywhere and am desperate to let them out, like I am a gushing drainpipe, a conduit for literary creation, the flow of them forceful and keen. They gambol around me like a smiling puppy, desperate for attention and I put my hand out to them and they come close, playful and full of energy, making my heart brim with happiness at the sight of them.

I have written poems about my neglected drafts:

No, writer's block is not something of which I suffer. And neither is it the expression of my ideas. I am lucky in that comes quite naturally to me too.

I didn't start writing this to be immodest but it seems to be reading like a Rachel boast-fest: this is not my intention.

And so, what is the purpose of this? Well, I think that I am going to have to take a step away from writing and in order to order my thoughts, I've decided to write about it, which seems highly apt.

***

I am a writer. I can say that with a sense of pride and with full awareness that it is true. I may not be a famous writer, a published writer in the sense of having books in my name, a prize-winning writer; but I am a writer nonetheless.

However, I am many other things too. I think there is an Oscar Wilde quote - any pithy witticism tends to be attributed to him but I think in this case it is true, even if I am paraphrasing - where he states that if you classify yourself as one thing, how will you ever know of what else you are capable? The idea in this is that you are so focused on, for the sake of this discussion let's say, being a writer that you lose sight of other potential areas of yourself that you could explore and grow.

And so, we find ourselves at the nub of this story.

***

I am a mother. My boys are growing, grown. I am planning trips to universities for open days. They are paying for their own haircuts and buying their own shoes as they explore their individuality. On the horizon is another avenue to my life, which is still distant but the edges are starting to form into something tangible and I will have to navigate it soon.

All too soon.

I spoke about this recently, this boys-to-men turning point when my husband found some memory sticks and I've shared the link below:

I view this approaching epoch with mixed emotions: I am excited for my eldest and his branching off but I am sad for this too because he will be away from me and I love him. It is a cliff drop moment where nothing will ever be the same again. This is truly what the expression bitter-sweet encapsulates as you see your offspring soar but inevitably, this must be away from you. There is a pleasure in seeing the confidence and the independence because that is the product of your nurture and investment - all the time that you have given is shown in their leaving. However, you are now without them and that is hard.

It bears repeating: things will never be the same again.

It's making me teary to think on this and I am surprising myself at the depth of my feeling as I live a full life in many ways but the thought of my sons embarking on their own lives separate to mine does make me feel like I have times of grief ahead of me. This is probably because I know that they will not live close to me if they're anything like me. And they are like me because they are born of me - a little tiny piece of who I am - and maybe this is why it is something I am both excited to experience and dreading.

The upshot of this is that time with them is short and I am very, very aware of it. I want to be focused on them and the limited moments that I have left with them as our lives stand right now - all living under the same roof; my eldest needing a lift somewhere; making things together in a shared kitchen; going into my eldest's bedroom in the morning to wake him up because he is there.

I know that I will then enter a new phase with my youngest because the dynamic will once more have shifted and I am excited and apprehensive for that too, as with all unexplored new things. But we are not quite there yet.

And so, it is down to me to revel in them as they are now or rue the days I lost with them when I dedicated my time to other things. Like writing.

It takes time.

***

I am a knitter. I love to knit although I am no great talent at it. But that is not the point. That is not why I do it. I find knitting fascinating. That may well be a strange thing to say and a difficult concept to grasp but I find the fact that one single strand can be crafted, manipulated, twisted - however you want to describe it - into an item of beauty, of ridges, of formed shapes that rise and dip, with colour and form - a little mysterious.

I love the repetition of it: reaching the end of a row and turning it to start again. A little victory each time the end of a needle is reached.

I love the process of creating something quite simply that you can hold in your hand and think "I made that." In some ways, it is not dissimilar to writing although you have something which is arguably more tangible.

Knitting calms me and is part of who I am. I come from a long line of knitters and am proud of this heritage.

And I love to do it but it takes time.

***

I am a reader. I love to read. I read a lot and I am eclectic in my taste. The exploration of other worlds is a wonderful gift to be given and I revel in the pictures that other people's words create in my head and the spark of inspiration that they provide to think more deeply, to empathise, to influence, to prompt exploration or development, to imagine.

Fiction, non fiction, historical fact, historical fiction, horror, erotic, fantasy, erotic fantasy, erotic horror fantasy, poetry, humour, biography, autobiography, memoir, young adult, fairy tale, sci fi, travelogues, plays, leaflets, cigarette packets - I read them all! I love reading!

I love it when you start a book: that feeling of being on the cusp of something new. I see it like entering a new building with many rooms and you get to roam around it and no-one knows you are there except your guide. It is a dedicated one-on-one experience and sometimes it's good and so eye-opening, it releases something inside you, like freeing up a lock; but sometimes your guide is not as clear or takes you to the wrong rooms or shows you the dull corners instead of the glittering chandeliers and the secret corridor behind the false wall. Either way, you learn something, even if it's never to read that author again.

I love it when you finish a book and that self-satisfied accomplishment that that brings. I love the fact that you know you can start something new now and that whole process begins again.

I love the seeking out that reading involves, like searching for gold nuggets or shells on a beach. You never know what you're going to find there. Like travelling to a new place and exploring it - I'll never get tired of that either.

I find it all rather exciting.

But it takes time.

***

I am a gardener. I love to grow things and I love to plant. I love to get my hands dirty and I love the feeling that toiling in the garden gives you. I don't like the aches but I like the process of getting them and the fact that I have laboured and achieved something, whether it's more colour in a border or the chance to see a seedling form from the pot I've placed it in. I love to trim and weed and level and cut and dig.

I would love to design gardens and have signed up to do a course in this online which I have started but it has stalled, due to the pull of otherness. I want to do this very, very badly.

But it takes time.

***

I am a reviewer. I read and review books. I write a review for every book I read on my blog at scuffedgranny.com. Here is a link to my latest on Darke by Rick Gekoski:

I love to review as I enjoy the expression of my views and telling you what I got from reading a book - see "I am a reader" section above. I don't want to give up reviewing and regularly get approached to read new authors' work as well as reading Advance Review Copies on Reedsy Discovery and Book Sirens, although time dedicated to this has been limited of late.

Because it all takes time.

***

These are my main interests but I am other things besides: wife, friend, daughter, co-worker, Etsy shop owner, baker of bread and cakes. All of these are hats I wear and they are all things in which I am invested.

But writing has dominated of late and I both love and hate this.

***

There are a couple of analogies that I can use to describe the way that I feel about writing.

The first is that this is how I imagine it must be to have an affair. I am drawn to writing and attracted by writing all the time. It dominates my thoughts above all else and I want to get back to it whenever I have the chance. It makes me happy, even ecstatic to indulge myself in it and the pleasure derived from it is enticing and fulfilling. However, I have to snatch moments to do and if I want to fully commit to it, I have to do it when others are not around. If I try to embark on it when they are near, I feel guilty and self-conscious and aware that I am not fully present with them; that my essence is somewhere else. The act of writing then becomes furtive and has to be accomplished quickly. If the others are away from me, I can focus on it solely, like a guilty pleasure all of my own. This is much more preferable but is rare and needs arrangement. I am never sated and crave more.

Or the other way I view it is like I have been in a tug of love.

Imagine Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man with each limb tethered and at different times having these limbs tugged at, sometimes at the same time, sometimes at varying times but all exerting a force external to him which pulls him this way and that. He is not being hurt and the ropes are soft but he is being jerked around like a badly operated puppet, and feeling a little pissed off about the whole thing.

Now imagine that this is a woman, plumpish but still with a figure of sorts, doesn't have to be naked, can be dressed in jeans and a brightly coloured top with long dark hair and glasses and each of these ropes are the things that I have described above, pulling at each of her extremities. She too is pissed off.

I have realised that I can't do it all but I can do a little of everything. However, this means that I am going to have to rebalance in some way.

You see, I have been allowing the writing to become my main focus and Vocal in particular and this has been a wonderful thing in so many ways. A place to publish my writing where I feel supported and appreciated is just great and with the help of people like Sian N. Clutton, Celia in Underland, Hannah Moore, Dharrsheena Raja Segarran, Alex H. Mittelman and Jay Kantor, I have felt snug and warm and happy.

But, this has been to the detriment of all the other things that I am. Imagine again the Vitruvian image of said writer as chubby, female 50 year old and one of the arms has become like an overworked Stretch Armstrong, whilst the remaining limbs are stumpy and maybe even a bit withered. That's me - all out of proportion.

I need to regain those proportions. I need to regain that balance and I need to invest more of myself in the different parts of me at this stage of my life.

I'm not going to give up writing but I am going to have to write less. I am also going to have to take a step back from the interactivity that being a writer on Vocal engenders. I have been invited to lots of Facebook groups and I love these. I LOVE THEM! Their support and humour and challenges and general all-round loveliness fills my heart with warmth and well-being. I know that my more recent successes have had something to do with interacting and raising my profile in our fab community by being part of this virtual meeting place.

But I can't sustain it. Actually, I can sustain it but it will be to the detriment of other things that matter and I can't allow that to happen as they are too important to me as well as being a fundamental part of the essence of who I am.

The writing is going to have to go on the back burner for a bit. I will have to end the affair. My stretched arm will have to recover. My stories will have to remain in the dark that bit longer, (read (no title) still for context) which does make me sad but life is all about sacrifice and compromise and just like all of the unread books on my shelves, of which there are an inordinate amount, they will just have to wait a bit longer.

I will reach them but just not yet.

Because it takes time and that needs to be devoted somewhere else.