All Out of Love

 I have fallen out of love with writing. My 50 year love affair with the Art of Wordery appears to have died. I felt it loosen its grip on my soul during November when I was trying to shoo along this year’s Christmas Story and found I could write no further than six days into the usual twenty four day tale. What I wrote was good. It was funny. I was pleased with it. 

And yet....from nowhere...it stopped. 

So no story this year. Not even a forced story. Writing suddenly became a pointless pursuit. And I extend my heartfelt apologies to those of you who’ve stuck with the Much Malarkey Manor fantasy all these years. Your encouragement and responses have lifted my writer’s heart more than you can ever know and without you I probably would have called an end to this ‘Being a Writer’ malarkey years ago. 

It hit me hard, I won’t lie. I’ve invested so much time honing my craft ever since I decided I wanted to be a writer when I was at primary school. It was my game plan, my career of choice. I was going to be a best selling novelist. I was going to spend all day, every day, writing, editing, publishing, travelling on book tours, talking to all sorts of interesting people about my work, signing autographs....yes, that was the plan.

Then suddenly this realisation emerges that it isn’t going to happen. I guess I just didn’t want it enough. Yes, I am a writer. I recognise I have a talent. And I shall continue to keep my private diaries. But what I don’t have is skin thick enough to buffer the constant rejections, or a character pushy enough to shout and barge my way through the crowds of other talented writers out there fighting to be published. It’s a tough world, when you are up against talentless celebrities who will, at least, guarantee their publishers sales and income. 

That didn’t sound bitter, did it? It wasn’t meant to. I’m just being realistic, and with that realism comes acceptance and peace. And now, for this time - days, weeks, months, whatever - I am happy to be pottering through the days doing a bit of sewing, making jigsaw puzzles, reading, getting ready for Christmas. Living one day at a time.

On other news, Andy had a blood test a couple of weeks ago which tested positive for Covid antibodies. He had a truly stinky, exhausting, hacking cough of a snotty fluey cold back in January which must have been Covid. And if it is as infectious as we’ve been told it is, then I’ve probably had it, too (January was pre-isolation because no-one appeared to know about Covid then) and was asymptomatic. Who knew, eh? Still, I feel comforted that Andy came through it unscathed and my immune system must be on top form. 

We had sheep visitors for a couple of weeks, in the field that wraps around Damson Cottage. That was nice, although a sheep coughing loudly in the dark when one is venturing to the top of the garden to close up the hen coop can rather make one jump! 

I’ve delivered a couple of craft sessions at the farm where I work. They went well. I’m not sure how many more there will be because the funding is finite, but I’ve learnt a couple of things along the way should I decide to set up my own craft delivery business in the future. It’s been a gentle training ground if nothing else.

The Christmas decorations are up, two weeks ahead of when they would usually appear. I’m glad we’ve decorated the house earlier. It has lifted my spirits; I think we’ve all needed a bit of an extended sparkle and twinkle boost after this year. 

I have two more days at work before the farm closes for a two week break. I’m looking forward to the break, which is insane, really, given it was less than two years ago that I was working full time in a stressful teaching job and now I work a couple of days a week doing a bit of gardening and cooking with a handful of delightful people. I think I am growing soft in my advancing middle age. My resilience is lacking resilience.

And that’s all, really. I am sorry about the lack of Christmas story. Although some of you maybe breathing a sigh of relief!