Sense-less

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I’ll ever write again. I’ve taken a break from feeling that I ‘should’ do this and I ‘should’ do that, in the hope that the muse will just return, take over and restore order to my messy mind.

Having ‘failed’ in my attempts to be published in the traditional route, okay, ‘failed’ is tough on myself, when I’ve very nearly made the cut a few times, I’m still now faced with a few options

1. Drown myself in an abyss of tears and become a pain in the ass to live with.
2. Self publish. (I have tried to embrace this route but started and never finished. I just keep coming back to ‘Is this what I really want?’)
3. Try again. Begin another novel. The problem is, even if I could face what has to happen when its written, edited, polished and honed -  I’m not sure I have a ‘killer idea’, one that just has to be written.

See why a break is a good idea?

In taking a break from writing every day, or feeling that I ‘have to’ do/finish a certain thing, I’m slowly finding the joy in the little things again. The things that perhaps inspire people who want to write, to do just that. I’ve only just begun to feel this and I don’t know if it’s a mere tremor of hope, or if it’s the beginning of the crawl from the abyss, but I can feel it...

I’ve started to notice the beautiful shades of the rhododendrons in the garden. I lay in bed yesterday morning, listening to the rhythmic sound of the rain dancing on the roof. When I spoke with the postman this morning, I noticed he wears very thick glasses and I wondered if he’d been on the end of nasty name calling in school. Placing my mug of tea on the dining table, I put it on a coaster, not wanting to water mark the table and found myself wondering why trees never get water marked from the rain.

In short, I think my senses are waking up.

I had gotten to the point where everything I did, writing wise, seemed senseless. By that, I mean pointless, unfulfilling, crap whatever, but I also mean sense-less.

I’m not there yet. Not by a long shot – the writing break still applies. But in beginning to hear and see things differently, in wanting to savour touch and taste, ideas are starting to form and I feel hopeful.

If I take it slowly, bite sized paragraphs on nothing in particular, just because I feel like it. Maybe, just maybe...

It's All Brown Paint...

Yesterday, I painted the bathroom. It’s been something I’ve been putting off for ages, but finally I went to B&Q, carefully chose the shade and spent the afternoon, roller and brush in hand. My husband’s response last night? A raised eyebrow and then silence. My daughters?
‘Mum, why did you paint the bathroom the colour of poo?’ she said. This remark was followed by a quick smirk from hubby and my curt reply – ‘It’s the colour of ‘Iced Frappe’ actually...’

Apart from the fact that I seriously believe she needs a doctor if her poo is the same shade as the bathroom wall, it did highlight the whole question of taste and subjectivity.

If I had a pound for all the times I’ve heard ‘You can write’ only to have it followed with the word ‘but’. .. The ‘but’ is followed by a ‘just not for us’ type remark. In other words, in my head I’ve been writing Iced Frappe but the fact remains - others see it as poo?

I imagine paint firms employ cool hunters and trend setters to come up with the next big thing in the paint world. Then having mixed their mix, they call it a trendy new name. Gone are Autumn Leaves and in with Cappucino, Nutmeg, Iced Frappe and Flaked Cinnamon. But when all is said and done, it’s all brown paint innit? Likewise with writing. You can write a best- selling time slip novel but strip away the layers to boy meets girl and it’s a love story. Or you may write a series of books about a family of human friendly vampires in a sleepy American town. Strip away those layers and it’s a love story with a little obsession thrown in.

I’ve spent years obsessing myself when it comes to my writing. Have I tapped into the zeitgeist? Is my story commercial? Lately and especially with my current WIP, I’ve gotten back to writing for writing’s sake and I’m loving it. I’ve avoided throwing an angel into the mix as they’re apparently the new vampires. And yes, underneath the layers of what I hope are interesting characters, it’s a love story.

So, years on, I think I’ve got something figured... It’s all brown paint. Some agents, readers, editors will see what I want them to see, Iced Frappe. Others will think my work isn’t current, reading in shades of Autumn Leaves; others may see a sparkle of Flaked Cinnamon.

And yes, though I hope to avoid them, despite my new found confidence in what I do- some will simply see poo... It’s the way of the wonderfully diverse world we live in.