Why I'm not writing

I sat down this morning to discover what's up with that.

Flowers, picked by me from the garden this morning.

I notice the fact that I’m not writing. And yet, here I am, committed to my writing buddy, Sam; showing up this morning with nothing to do but write, so here I am, exploring my un-writing on the page.

I set out with good intentions. This was to be a year of fearless writing, I signed up to

Beth Kempton

’s program of the same name. All in. I started my Substack by gathering pieces previously written elsewhere and adding them here. I joined the Writing Room. with Anne Lamott. I signed up to writing class again with Jules Swales. I read Dear Writer by

Maggie Smith

.

And then…nothing.

My river of creativity cannot not flow, that I know.

But the tributaries that are wide open and those that are stilted, dried up and inaccessible are also not my choice.

At the moment, my art is choosing to express itself through abstraction and colour. Painting shapes and growing and gathering flowers.

Creating music, sharing my writing and bringing new programs out into the world have all ceased for now.

The specific, the curated, the honed are not for me right now.

I have been in the thick of life, the past few weeks.

Absolute clarity came to me early this year when my daughter texted me: “I need YOU to be here while I get through this bit.”

A stomach upset at Christmas and twelve days of almost no eating that left her shaking, weak and unable had resulted in severe anxiety, panic attacks and another inability to return to school (or leave the safety of her bed). Or eat.

Removed from the GCSE exams. Again.

Her future erased. Again.

My husband is the caretaker in our house, I am the breadwinner. I knew in that moment that none of that mattered and I replied: “I’m here”.

Meetings, appointments, Dragon Queen fury in a fight for services, daily tasks to attempt that which others find ordinary; this is what our lives have been full of these past months, my daughter and I.

And a dropping away of anything in my diary that requires me to be in a certain place, at a certain time.

I cancelled my Writing Room membership. I pulled out of my class with Jules. I haven’t opened a single email from the Year of Living Fearlessly course, or the Art course I had also signed up to. I saw my last Human Design client and held my last Stardusting session. I completed my HeartHealing training by doing the bare minimum the classes required of me (when I’m usually an over-achieving top-of-the-class-kind-of-gal).

The only thing I have now in my diary is a monthly Q&A call for my Flower Club members……and…….I notice, this commitment to Sam as we write together every Monday morning.

It is not true, this idea that I have not been writing, I now realise.

I am writing differently.

I have not been publishing Substacks. I have not been writing outside of my session with Sam. I have no burning ideas arriving on dog walks that demand to be shared with the world. I am not sharing my observations on Facebook. The balance has tipped in favour of living my life, rather than writing about it.

I have nothing to say to the world.

I feel intensely private; the details of my life being shared only with my husband and my closest friends.

And with myself as I unfold my heart onto the page.

Some weeks, in my Sam Sessions, I have showed up and simply journaled at stream of consciousness into a notepad. Last week, I found myself writing for an hour about all the things I liked about myself and my life and all the things I didn’t. Then deleting the whole thing, its work done once my head was emptied of it all. Occasionally I have simply sorted my to-do list.

It grounds me into myself this sacred time on a Monday morning. It’s where I get to discover what’s important to me.

I know there are important words I will have to share. Earth-shattering, mind-blowing, life-changing words and stories that will make your hair stand on end and your toes curl.

But they are not here yet.

I have to live this part of the story before I can write it.

And I have to write myself through it.

On pieces of paper no one will ever see.

And that is why it looks like I’m not writing at the moment.

.