An extraordinary white mist lay across Ealing Fields when I was out for my morning run yesterday. The road behind me had been bright and clear, a big pink grapefruit of a sun rising in the east. I could see every blade of grass in front of me. The outline of the trees on the hill beyond. The sky above. But the white mist drifting up from the canal had completely obscured the path on one side of the field. It was quite a sight.
I entered the mist myself and found it a lot denser inside than it had appeared outside. At first, I could still make out the path ahead, the bushes to the side. But as I ran deeper in, there was nothing except the cerise fleece of a dog walker a few feet in front.
I ran on. Suddenly, I was out the other side and circling back towards the sunrise. Everything was clear again. It was as if the mist had never been.
I ran round the field four times, entering and leaving the mist each time. On my fifth circuit, the mist miraculously dispersed without me even noticing.
"A bit like life really," I thought as I ran. There are times when I know where I'm heading. And I can see the path that will lead me there. Then, without warning, I can't see or think a step ahead. I've no idea where I'm going. Nor of how to go forward.
That's how it's been these past few months. Work stopped. There wasn't (and still isn't) a sign telling me when (or even if) it would resume. My intention was to use the time to develop my creative writing. With the idea that I would perhaps emerge with some way of combining business writing (which will earn me money) with creative writing (which may or may not). And to incorporate a lot more travel into my life along with both of those things.
But what to write? Short stories? A novel? A magazine column? A memoir? A piece of non-fiction? I've dabbled in all sorts. Got excited about and despondent with all of them. There are days when I write something that I think has legs. That could lead somewhere. But the next day, I seem to have run back into the mist again. And feel like I haven't gone forward at all.
I have of course. Because I've kept moving. And as I know from business writing, with almost every project there's a period of time - sometimes hours, sometimes days - when I can't see how to make it work. But the only way I can find out is to keep working on it. And quite suddenly, the moment will arrive when the answer is glaringly obvious.
It's the same with my current mist. If I don't keep writing, I will emerge with nothing. I will step back onto the familiar comfortable road behind me. If I don't want to do that, I have to keep going. Keep on keeping on (to paraphrase Bob Dylan, Curtis Mayfield and some house band I was listening to on my run this morning - it seems there's a lot of people who think it's a good idea!). Eventually, the mist will disperse.
On my last circuit of the field, I got chatting to one of the dog walkers. "Well done," she said. "I keep seeing you. You've travelled a long way!" "Not really," I said. "I'm not getting anywhere. I'm just going round in circles." We laughed. And went on. Her with her walk. And me with my run. But I was getting somewhere. Because I was keeping on keeping on.