I wrote a lot about death last year, in my private notes outside of this space. My grandfather died in May 2016 and since then my personal scribbles are full of thoughts about life and its inevitable end: the melodramatic whining of a 30-something hesitantly peering out from the edges of motherhood wondering who she is and what she is doing here. I wrote a short story called “Killing the Mouse” which, in a nutshell, is about my feelings of grief and loss after killing a mouse that lived in my kitchen, the spotlight shining in the wrong spot and all that. Hmm, deep. There were also some notes about a dog named Scruffy. I deleted that file.
This is all fresh in my mind because instead of writing last night (like I promised myself I would) I went through all my writing files and folders on my computer and organised them neatly and dragged and dropped notes and files from here to there and back again. Then I spent a considerable amount of time choosing a picture for my desktop (Leaves: too close up, feelings of claustrophobia. Ocean: thoughts of drowning. Lakes and shadows of mountains in lakes: makes me think I’ll suddenly see the face of a dead body under the surface of the water like in LOTR. Space and planets: Does anything matter? Who am I in all this? Mountains: isolation. Tree trunks: lost in forest with no food or water.) I settled for an abstract pattern and got back to shuffling documents around from here to there and back again. Drag. Drop. Drag. Drop. Then I watched YouTube for a while and decided it was high time for bed and sadly, darling, nothing would get written because I was simply far too busy.
It’s nearing the end of January and I haven’t written anything at all this year except the previous blog post and a few things on the back of old envelopes. Nevertheless, I’m not going to get all sooky about it. We have been out in the garden soaking up the summer sun, we’ve been at the beach, we’ve been walking, we’ve been together. And now that the holidays are coming to a close and my folders are organised and my desktop is in order, I really have nothing else to do but knuckle down and write and inevitably – naturally – something will eventually come, the sentence will appear (the one from which all others will follow), the page will be filled, and so on.
I will write this year, not because I think I should, but because I have to, it is ingrained in me and there is no other way. It may not be perfectly planned or executed, it may not be when or how I imagine it might or should or could be, but it will be. Creativity is like that.
What are you working on this year?