People often ask me about my writing. Where I get ideas. How I go about writing blogs. Whether I’ll write a book. Good questions, all. I’m not sure I have the answers to any of them…
Where do they come from, these words? Two years ago, they weren’t there at all. And then suddenly, there they were. Unsure of themselves at first. Faltering. Appearing in fits and starts. Coming every day for weeks, spilling out, overflowing. And then there’d be nothing, it seemed. As if the well of words had run dry. But I wrote anyway. Because nothing gets written by someone who doesn’t put pen to page.
In May, there are so many ideas I can’t keep up. They come when I’m out for a run, when I’m waiting for a train, when I’m wandering round a gallery. A scene observed on a canal. A story about the woman I saw crying at London Bridge station. A fable about a phenomenon called talk and die. Each raises its hand in an effort to attract my attention. “Choose me!” “Choose me!” “Choose me!” they beg. Those that insist the loudest and longest, I do. Most remain dormant.
In June, there’s no work for a week. No meetings. No final edits. No reason why I can’t devote every day to writing. To developing a more long-term project. A book, maybe. I buy an artist’s sketchpad and some coloured pens. And launch into a mind-mapping exercise. I identify three possible routes. For a while, I feel wildly enthusiastic about each of them. I experiment to see where they’ll lead. One by one, they trail off. Reach dead ends.
In July, I land two big work projects. My brain is filled with sustainable initiatives and mapping customers’ shopping journeys. Some nights I even dream about these things. It’s a relief to wake up and know what I’m going to write about each day. To shape someone else’s good idea into words instead of having to come up with one of my own.
I submit first drafts of this work. They go out for review. They don’t need me to tend to them for a while. I’m left without the comfort blanket of work. Two weeks pass and I create nothing. I get angry with myself. Slightly panicked that the creative streak has taken flight. That’s it’s finally had enough of me failing to keep my side of the bargain by putting in the work.
It’s well into August when the writing notebook comes out again. When the pen is poised over the page. But what do I write about? I can think of nothing. For inspiration, I flick through a notebook in which I write down things that I might write about later (but rarely do).
Lonesome words pop off the pages - “doom-scrolling”, “providence” and something that looks like “acorns”. Phrases that I can’t remember the meaning of like “Baedeker raids” and “dustbin shopping”. This last one sounds quite promising, so I Google it, imagining it to mean sifting through other people’s bins for treasure – but instead I’m offered a selection of dustbins I’ll love. “Feed the cat!” is etched hard into the next page. A note taken during a phone call from my neighbours when they got stranded in Brazil. The next is partially obscured by sploshes of coffee. In the final note, I’ve recorded a dream (that I now can’t remember having) about a relative setting her hand on fire.
“What are my themes?” I’ve written (and underlined) having listened to a talk by one of my favourite authors, David Mitchell. He has a theory that whenever a writer writes, their pet themes inevitably emerge. His pet themes are miscommunication and causality. These sound much more erudite than mine, which recently are running and canals. But there’s no point in worrying about that. Mine are mine and his are his.
It’s September now and, since I don’t feel drawn to any of my notes, I decide just to write any old thing. I write about the animals playing in the garden. The black-eared fox cub (nearly an adult already) sniffing the lavender. Or so I thought, until he went for a bee. And withdrew fast. Some of these pieces of writing wither after a few lines (for now at least) and others (like this one) flourish…
I knew it had legs as soon as I started writing it. I could tell from the way it started to run on under its own steam. What shape would it take? Which words would be chosen? I never can tell. Writing goes where it will. It’s no use me interfering. Trying to shoehorn in clever little phrases that I take a fancy to. If I do, they stand out stubbornly when I read over what I’ve written. Demand that I delete them. Only those that emerge of their own free will are worth saving. Only these are any good.
Once it’s written, this blog, I read it aloud. Listen to its cadence, its rhythm, its words. This section needs a more staccato, bumpier rhythm. That sentence would be emboldened by a different word order. A nice bit of alliteration would lift the penultimate paragraph. I read it through again. And again. Fiddle with a few final words. Correct a couple of grammatical glitches. Until it announces that it’s finished.