Bank holiday Monday and it’s an ungodly hour of the morning – 8a.m. to be precise. The kind of time my body clock would turn its nose up at and refuse to acknowledge it even existed if it weren’t for the tyranny of the mortgage. The fact that I’m conscious and typing on a non-working day is the price I’m paying for a moment of ill-considered generosity of spirit towards the end of last week when the Husband arranged a morning visit of an engineer to try and get our phone fixed. He’s having a stressful time at work, I was full of good cheer at the prospect of a four day weekend; there may have been a glass of wine involved. Before I knew it, I’d volunteered to be the one to haul myself out of bed – a fact he gleefully reminded me of as we got into bed a mere six hours ago after a Game of Thrones box set marathon (him) and an obsessive internet search for antique brass two light ceiling spotlights (unsuccessful – me).
So here I am, half asleep and waiting for the engineer who, according to the Law of Sod, will no doubt arrive at the end of the four hour slot we’ve been given, if indeed he arrives at all. What better time to attempt to breathe some life into this poor, neglected blog of mine?
It’s been seven weeks now since I returned to work. Time enough, you might think, to have settled into a rhythm. Time to have reprioritised and reorganised and rearranged. Time, in short, to have sorted myself out and found a way of fitting in full-time work and writing groups and book clubs and blogs and reading, and perhaps even a bit of writing.
You might think that. But I’m sad to report, you’d be wrong.
What have I managed to do since my nose has once again been pressed firmly against the grindstone? Well, here – in numbers – are my achievements of the last seven weeks:
- Episodes of PTSD involving sobbing into the Husband’s t-shirt, melodramatically declaiming that I Simply Could Not Do It Any More: 1
- Moments of realisation that I could, and in fact, had to: 1
- Blog posts: 1
- Book club meetings attended: 0
- Writing group meetings attended: 1
- Emails to agent: 6
- Rewrites: 0.1 (based on how much rewriting was actually done)
- Publishers to whom manuscript has been resubmitted: 0
- Bottles of champagne not drunk at Christmas and which I’ve promised myself I will open when I eventually get that book deal: 1
- Bottles of champagne still unopened: 1
- Words of second book written: 0.
I’m forced to conclude it’s not looking great.
But why is this? Why the creative paralysis? Is it simply the restrictions of the number of hours in the day? Or is there something more going on here?
I was talking to another frustrated writer the other lunch time (honestly, it turns out that the civil service is full of them – if people ever start reading more, Ministers will be hard pressed to find someone to make them a cup of tea, let alone advise on policy). Her theory was that she switched to the right hand side of her brain when she was in “creative” mode, and that she was simply incapable of using her “left side” analytical, reasoning skills at the same time. The result was that she found herself sitting in meetings musing over her colleagues’ hand gestures and psychological drivers, instead of engaging with whatever happened to be the substance of the discussion.
Is this true for the rest of us, I wonder? Do I have to switch off my creative self in order to do what’s essentially an analytical job? Does my imagination limit my efficiency?
It’s true that my mind has been known to wander at work. One of my junior Ministers – the previous administration, I hasten to add – bore a distractingly close resemblance to 80s comedy schoolboy Jimmy Krankie. I spent many a happy hour trying to work out what a former line manager reminded me of when he leaned backwards in a peculiarly stiff shouldered way and waggled his hands as he spoke, before realisation dawned that it was one of those puppets in Stingray or Thunderbirds. And which of us hasn’t occasionally wondered where one or other of their colleagues sits on the psychotic scale?
But everyone does that, right?
In the case for the defence, I wrote 80,000 words of my first draft whilst working full-time; and, about half of that was written after dad had his stroke and I was trekking back to Wales most weekends to see him. Surely it’s a bit much now to be claiming that I can’t write anything half decent without a three week run up of clear minded, distraction free, Creative Time?
And yet, there’s something in this left-brain, right-brain thing all the same.
I remember very clearly the moment when my return to work suddenly became less painful. It was Wednesday lunchtime in my first week, the day after the t-shirt-moistening snivel fest referred to above. I’d just finished a meeting and was walking back to my desk and I felt something click into place – I realised I felt different. As my one and only blog post to date since returning to work noted, “I felt like a civil servant again”.
I’ve no idea what triggered it. It might simply have been a defence mechanism to stop myself feeling so bloody miserable. But whatever it was, it was absolutely real to me. From that moment on, it felt like being back at work wasn’t the end of the world. It felt like I could cope.
There’s a corollary, though, to feeling like a civil servant. No matter how hard I tell myself it doesn’t have to be this way, I feel like less of a writer. I can feel it, that idea: the one that’s creeping back in, slithering through the crack under the door of my subconscious. The idea I thought I’d almost got rid of when I was on leave. The idea that writing isn’t serious. My writing, anyway. That it’s nothing more than a quaint little hobby I turn to when I’ve got nothing more important to do. That I ought to grow up a bit, give my intellectual energy to the thing that pays the bills. That I’m too old to be playing at make believe.
And maybe that’s what it really comes down to for me, this left-brain, right-brain thing. Maybe it’s about believing that it’s okay to spend time on something creative; and more than that, that I shouldn’t be embarrassed about taking it seriously.
I re-read the post I wrote when I was preparing to return to work earlier today, the one that tried to set out what I’d learned in my time on leave (https://mrsholderslegacy.wordpress.com/2014/02/25/goodbye-freedom-its-been-fun/). It said that I’d realised I didn’t need validation through a performance marking for my day job. Perhaps now Right-brain Me needs to make the same journey. Perhaps I need to make myself believe that I don’t need validation through a publishing deal. That I can take my writing seriously without having to be paid for it.
Or then again, maybe that’s just a way of feeling better about admitting defeat?