I wonder what I can write on this Saturday afternoon whilst I am feeling so hung over after the annual unemployed Xmas luncheon, something I strongly recommend however, slightly depressed as I am realising how a current project of mine is a tad over ambitious for my dream of the end presentation.
Sometimes I wonder also, how I actually became a writer. When I find it so hard to write. I look at those fabulous fictitious programs of yesterday like Sex in the City where the main character is a writer on a column writing about the life of a young thirty something female in NYC (I loved that program and still love watching the repeats), well I have taken on a column if I actually get it going properly… about having a cup of tea with someone. A simple concept, only when I have had the tea and spoken to someone how I manage to get those words to paper, or in my case to computer is such a conundrum to me. I have such a dyslexic approach to writing these days: too many projects on the go at once I tell myself, too many distractions, and what is it that I actually want to do anyway?
Always trying to get out an article that is well over due. I have two at the moment, sitting in my brain and half laid on the page, both needing the final push of love and inspiration, of which today I have none and the days when I attempt to complete these oh so simple yet tedious tasks, I have no words. None at all. And today complete with a hangover, I sit here with my adopted cat Martin, who I must add is now purring asleep on the leather settee beside me, allowing me to type away at my hearts pace. The fingers move and he looks up occasionally to see what I am up to with the tapity tap tap of the keys.
It takes muscles in your mind to write. Some call it inspiration. Some call it hack. Some call it work. I don’t know what I call it, apart from, I need to truly believe in what I am writing about and perhaps most of my world has been vacuous, it makes it hard for me, or rather, I make it hard for me. I almost took on a photo journalistic commission recently where I would place myself in a world where I would be at danger and portray a group of women who once were hidden are now slowly being understood as important characters of their society. I even got invited this week to join a committee of ways to provide ‘inclusion’ within certain parts of our own culture that doesn’t ‘include’, why me I wondered when I so dream of being left alone, well sometimes at least. Other times I long for being part of a team – working on a project that allows me to shine in my own special way. I have yet to decide if I would like to include myself within this inclusion committee, although I love to shine.
So I write these words to warm up my brain muscles to see how I can kick them into writing some valid words, words that other people want to read, and share with you what I have experienced, in my own very special way, of which I remember someone commenting, “Ahh a car review with very little car” yes indeed, my speciality I reckon.
A change of scene this coming year I believe. A change of home perhaps. A change of outlook and a change of approach. Last year took its toll on me, it knocked me despite having curated an amazing exhibition at the British Motor Museum and moved into a special little working space I have entitled the Potting Shed, in the heart of the countryside, something I have longed for, for quite some time and a place where I have just this very day began to start writing again. Virginia Woolf was quite correct, that everyone woman needs a room of her own – I even have a garage now for restoring my Land Rover which took a halt due to work commitments and now once again I can pick up the sanding gun to pull Big Red, my beloved Series 2a, into the 21st Century.
I find writing fabulously therapeutic despite what I mentioned at the start here, I do actually love what can appear in front of your eyes without consciousness sometimes, like a drawn line, or a bar of Jazz music. It sometimes allows you to reveal the most hidden thoughts that until you bring them onto the page you never knew they really existed.
Words are to life how light is to photographs, both dependent on one another and perhaps as I am becoming to Martin and Martin to me, quite reliant on each other.
Well after a warm up of the keys and cogs of my mind, I think I had best continue on with these two delayed articles – soon to appear on Huffington Post.
Enjoy the festive season everyone. Hope you all find your own voice.