#ambarelywriting

“Just imagine how much worse you’ll feel if you don’t… .” Thus, my all-purpose metaphorical cattle-prod. It gets the job done but, as motivational strategies go, it doesn’t exactly have me aglow with inspiration. It’s been a difficult couple of months; the amount of effort needed to do the things I know make me feel better increases by the week. I am relying on staggering amounts of willpower, spiked with potent doses of shame and fear.

We finally got away for a week in a rented cottage in my beloved Pembrokeshire, a fifteen minute walk from a tiny cove. It was wonderful, but a week is not nearly enough: I was still should-ing myself throughout (not helped by a tight writing deadline to meet midweek). One morning after breakfast I sat alone on the beach and realised what I want right now is four weeks of solitude, a complete cycle of moon-soaked tide-watching. Books, good bread, tea. A logfire in the hearth. The sea. Sufficient respite from the usual human clamour.

Writing is barely happening. This is more than tiredness, or lack of inspiration: it feels like a refutation-tight veto issued from the depths of the depths. I skirt round it as best I can. (I am currently doing two courses with The Poetry School). To do so is exhausting! I cheated it last week by tuning into Joelle Taylor’s Zoom workshop, for Arvon and the Working Class Writers’ festival, on the body in poetry. She gave a fantastic performance and shared several timed exercises, which I could pretend were ‘just playing, really’. The two hours flew by!

As for my poetry pamphlet… I don’t want to think about it. Possibly because I have a bad conscience in its regard. I feel deflated, defeated, vaguely embarrassed. Perpetually simmering. I’m accumulating rejections of batches of poems, which is disappointing but by no means devastating. What I cannot endure at this time is the required jumping through social media hoops etc. apparently necessary for ‘profile-raising’ in order to make a success of the work. I love doing the work of writing poems, and the more it challenges me, the more I want to give to it. But the business of ‘being a poet’, what does that actually mean anymore? Is it something I’ll grit my teeth and do, for the sake of the writing? Dare I ask myself, at this point, how I really feel about the prospect of being published? Is it even something I truly want? Or is it something I am afraid to let go of after the years of effort and intention I have given to it?

What’s Hecuba to me?

Or I to Hecuba? I wrote last time that I was revisiting, and enjoying, Virgil’s Aeneid. On Saturday morning I took a break from my usual exercise routine and did an hour of Latin before breakfast instead. Or rather, I intended an hour but stopped after 40 minutes. God, it’s hard work! I have to read verrrry slowwwly: that’s quite enough for one day. Now, where’s my porridge and mug of English Breakfast?

All lies, of course. The truth of the matter is I put Virgil down because Aeneas’ telling of the fall of Troy was upsetting me. How many times have I read or heard that story? How many versions have I watched? I only picked up the Aeneid because Dante led me back to it and I am currently feeding a fascination with his Divine Comedy. I thought I was returning to my Latin A-Level text: a nicely gratifying intellectual exercise. Damn it, Virgil, I was not expecting to be emotionally affected by your 2000-year-old hexameters! I feel ambushed. I feel ridiculous. And quietly jubilant that words, that poems, have this power – even in a work I assumed familiarity had rendered inert.

My own words appear to have gone into early hibernation. Checking my notebook, I am reassured on confirming that my writing does indeed tend to go underground at this time of year. It is not a worry, then, yet (though I must take care over other early warning signs of depression I have noted) but it is still a far from pleasant state to be in.

I have returned to my recently neglected sketchbook. Wanting to keep things simple, and not overwhelm myself with limitless possibilities, I have been focusing on pen and ink sketches of stuff around the house. Well, if the pen won’t write, perhaps it can still be persuaded to draw!

I picked up a pear to eat with my porridge this morning and actually said, “Oh, hello: it’s you!” when I recognised it as one of the three I drew yesterday. So the act of giving my attention to the contents of the fruitbowl has transformed them from ‘it’ to ‘you’. Hecuba… pears… where is this going? I don’t know. I have no answers, but that’s fine as long as I am still making responses to things.