I wrote my article, 'The Surprise of Being a Poet' in June, when I first started writing a poem a day in response to @emmeliving 's 3 prompt game: the OED word of the day, a colour descriptor, and a number. I initially declined joining in, but I got hooked by the delicious invitations of the prompts showing up each day, and was soon playing along. What started as a game, poems just a few lines long, almost throwaway first thoughts, became an emerging focus on writing poetry, something I've always dabbled in and loved, but somehow believed I couldn't, or shouldn't, do.

By the end of June, most players had dropped by the wayside, and it was just me and Emme left. However, with no need for discussion, the consensus was clear and mutual: "we can't stop now, can we?" And that's when things changed.

For a start, in July Emme, a talented artist, had been responding each day with an image. But for July, she announced that she wanted to explore words, and would be writing a poem a day too. When I read her first poem, I was half-annoyed! Why hadn't she told me she was already an accomplished poet? It turned out she'd never written poetry before. She is just a natural.

Meanwhile, I ramped things up at my end. I still went with my first, gut response to the prompts. Every day, the minute I've seen them, I've instantly had an idea for a connection and meaning. But in July, I paused before starting writing. Ok, I have an idea, but can I develop it, twist it, give it nuance? Then I would write, but consciously trying to develop more skill. Then, I would reread many times with a critical eye, cutting, tweaking, rewriting lines. Finally I would send it to Emme. Then the fun started.

While I sat in bed, drinking my morning tea, we would read eachother's poems, and co-edit. We would message back and forth our responses, questions, suggest cuts or rephrases. Because of the deep level of trust in our friendship, we felt safe enough to be both truly honest in our critique, knowing it was offered out of respect and with love; and we felt confident to push back if we didn't agree, and both found that there were some words which we would fight for and die defending. The creative dialogue has been one of the richest and most exciting dynamics I have ever experienced.

It emerged that we have two distinct styles. Emme writes poetry that is often quite oblique. She will find a meaning and references that have never occurred to me. Occasionally, it has been so oblique that I have had to feed back that, as a fresh reader, I didn't understand the meaning that she has subsequently explained to me. Then her choice has been whether to make her meaning more explicit, or whether to let the ambiguity and mystery stand. We have always maintained that each author has the final say, it is their poem.

On the other hand, my style has emerged to be very different. I tend to head straight to the literal, but then, through the poem, embue it with an abstract meaning or metaphor. A lot of the interest and stimulation has come from the contrast between our two styles. I think Emme has thought more about clarity for the reader because of me, and I have been pushed to find more complexity and oblique perspectives. Both of our poetry has benefitted, I believe.

Huge credit has to go to Emme for making the finished poems look stunning. She has used her talent for digital art to format the poems, set them in the appropriate colour background, and has, each day, generously sent me a selection of images for me to choose from to accompany my poem. This means there has, each day, been a visually stunning end product to celebrate the words we have worked so hard on. I am hugely grateful to her for this, because it is completely outside my skillset, but has given me treasures to keep for life.

So we have arrived at the last day: 31st July. The poem I wrote today was a celebration and throwback to the journey. I enjoyed writing it, but my feelings are bittersweet. Yes, I'm proud of us both, but every arrival at a destination is also the ending of the journey. We set out to do this, and we have done it. That immediately creates a vacuum, there is loss. It's over.

I'm feeling emotional.

Because, even though I've posted my poem every day, nobody, not even Emme, has seen everything else that's been in the mix. I wrote a poem every single day for 31 days, despite a big ill health flare-up, a bereavement, an energy crash, a sudden massive romantic crush and subsequent disappointment, stress from my stalled house sale, nights when I didn't sleep past 3am. Writing a poem a day has not come automatically, it has not always been easy, it had costs.

But it has been, in the writing itself, always, always a joy. And that is what has kept me going. That is also why Emme and I are, again, not stopping! We are changing the format, setting new intentions, and start with a new prompts format tomorrow, 1st August. We also want to take our 62 poems and turn them into two creative projects - which I couldn't possibly reveal, but watch this space...

So where am I left with my feelings today, on arriving at this moment? Radio 3 came to my rescue with beautiful serendipity. There is always music as the soundtrack to my tapestry of feelings, and I didn't realise I needed a piece for both an ending and a beginning, an arrival and departure. Until the perfect one came on the Radio.

In the US, in times of national emotion, they play Barber's Adagio for Strings; in the UK, we play Elgar's Nimrod. I'm not alone in loving this deeply emotional, incredible piece of music, but it has a special resonance for me. It is the music which my grandmother walked into her wedding to, and the music that was the very last thing played at the end of her memorial service after her death. An arrival and beginning; a departure and an end.

It was as the first, impossibly quiet notes began to play in my bedroom this morning that I finally found the release I hadn't realised I needed, and I sat on my bed and sobbed. Pride, sadness, fatigue, joy, memories, new horizons all played on my heartstrings as I wept. July has been all of that.

But I will end with the reason I am here on Substack: I am a writer. I am ending July as a poet, and with new feathers on the arrows in my writer's quiver of skills. I believe what I am learning through taking writing poetry seriously for the first time in my life will benefit my prose writing too. Will make me a better writer. But, more importantly, a more joyful one.

Because that's what my month of poetry has been: a joy.

This was a spontaneous buy. I'd never heard of it, nor read anything by the author before. I was just noodling in my local bookshop, hanging out in my happy place, when the first thing that grabbed my attention was the stunning cover. Black flecked with shiny gold, and dramatic rays striking out around the title. Wow.

Then I read the quotation on the front cover by Ash Bond, quoted above. The concept of bravery and the word brave is a particular passion of mine, so that was a hook, and who doesn't love a mystery, especially if it's also reflective? Honestly, the bit I was least into, that might be the draw for most, was the sci-fi twist, but by now I was thoroughly curious.

Having finished it yesterday, I can tell you, I was not disappointed. This is a special read, and highly distinctive and unique.

Anya lives by the sea with her mum, who does secretive research on a boat at sea every day. One night, there is a storm, and Anya awakes in the night to find that her mum hasn't come home. She's out of her mind with worry, and rushes down to the beach. Staring out to sea, she thinks that she can see the light of her mum's boat, and assumes her mum must be in trouble and in need of help. Anya jumps into a rowing boat and sets out to help her mum across the sea. But the light grows as she approaches, and there is no boat, just a window of golden light suspended above the ocean. Mesmorized, she reaches out to touch it - and everything stops.

The book is separated into five distinct parts, and, without giving anything away, the POV of the narrator changes each time. This is very skilfully and elegantly handled. There is no clunky explanation, it is immediately clear who is speaking. The fact that the POV changes abruptly heightens the urgency of the book's pace, and adds to the interest and challenge for the reader, without being at all taxing.

The plot is excellent. Very little is revealed at the beginning, and clarity only emerges as the characters discover it themselves. The sci-fi dimension is good, but really not dominant. It is more of a context and reason for the plot's drama to unfold, which it does at a fast pace. This suited me, but might disappoint sci-fi fans hoping for more. But what theory there was, was coherent and fitted the book.

Two things stood out for me. Firstly, the quality of the writing style was superb. It was extremely spare, deceptively simple. Easy to read, but losing no power at all because of this. There was a combination of description, dialogue, and italicized internal monologue. This made for a rich and varied experience while reading. One dominant theme was the weather at sea, and this motif runs throughout the book, even in ingenious ways at times, and is powerfully and vividly rendered.

However, the main impact for me was the emotional heft of the book. The driving force behind the plot, the characters, the writing style, and even ultimately the sci-fi, was raw emotion. It felt electric. Utterly believable. Compelling. This was where the book's real power came from, it's drive, it's atmosphere, it's raison d'etre. Obviously, as a children's book, the protagonist is a child with an appropriate emotional landscape, but the adults also had feelings which deserved a place of their own, and weren't minimised and, therefore, believable. Indeed, the interplay between the child and adult emotional worlds was dynamic and drove the book forward.

One point of note. Children can do a lot as the protagonist of their own novel, but they always exist in an adult world. As such, they often need the assistance of what I call an 'adult ally', if the child's mission is to succeed. This theme is explored in several characters, and takes unexpected twists and turns throughout the book.

Key to this trope is the issue of trust: what adult can the child in danger and needing to save themselves trust? How can they tell who is safe? This is brilliantly explored in all its complex dimensions. And raises a bigger question reflecting the reality of children in the real world. What adults are safe, when children are often told all adults are safe and you must always do what they tell you? Crime statistics prove that this is not true, so the question is, how do we equip children to judge whether any adult is safe or not, how do we empower children to keep themselves safe in a world that can't guarantee them that? And how on earth do we prepare them for the fact that it mostly isn't 'stranger danger', but will probably happen in their own home, school, or church?

I digress. 'Anya and the Light Above the Ocean' is a fantastic story, with pace, depth, complexity, action, and compelling emotion. Indeed, the climax of the book proves nothing is more powerful than your feelings, specifically loss, longing, and love. And, u

ltimately, love triumphs.

I'm an adult, and, like other adults, read adult literature of all kinds. Adult literature is not usually suitable for children. But, unlike most other adults, I also read children's literature. Because, what people forget, is this is really written both for children and adults, and that is a profound difference between the two genres. It is still accessible to all of us, however grown up and serious we may think we have become.

For this choice, I pay a price. The ridicule. The patronising comments. "Sweet. Nice. Charming. Comforting. Reassuring. Lovely."

Bullshit.

Modern children's fiction is wild, urgent, fierce, brave, uncompromising, radical, broad-ranging, imaginative, and powerful. I read it because it's consistently of a higher quality than a lot of adult fiction I read. Why? Because every children's author knows if the pace and intensity drops for even a second, the child will likewise not hesitate to drop the book. Whereas us dutiful adults think we 'should' finish every book we start, even if it's rubbish; because it's our duty, or because we're being thorough, or because our bookclub told us to and we want to be good and obedient little readers.

Well, my To Be Read list is too long to waste time reading any book that isn't excellent. So I take the kids' attitude, and drop it like a hot potato if it doesn't make the grade.

Do I read 'the Classics?' With discretion. As a woman, I find some old-fashioned, children's literature sets a shocking example to young girls of what it means to be a woman. I do not read these, because I was fed them myself as a child, and it has taken me years to unlearn the image of womanhood as only meek, pliable, obedient, subservient to boys and men, always coming second, only ever 'nice' and 'good.' That said, some old-fashioned literature is stellar and complex. You need to explore, navigate with caution, and make you're own mind up. Probably one of the most underestimated writers, interesting woman, and conveyor of surprisingly modern ideas if you dig deeply, is Frances Hodgson Burnett. But not consistently, so again, navigate with caution.

No such caution us needed, however, for modern children's writers. Heavens above, this genre is alive, well, and kicking. A few highlights.

Katherine Rundell is an unrivalled writer. Her word craft is impeccable and inventive, her characters brave but vulnerable, her plots irresistible. What is particularly impressive is that each of her books is nothing like the others. Each is truly original and unique in feel. If I could write like her, I would die happy. Her books are well known, but my favourite is her least known, Girl Savage, which is simply an extraordinary tour de force.

Katya Balen is unparalleled in the emotional intensity and maturity of her writing, as well as her inventive use of language and the form of words on the page. She is unafraid to plumb the depths and heights of children's emotional experiences, without dumbing down to make adults comfortable. Her books are beautiful, and varied, but for me the standout is October, October. One of the best books I have ever read.

Philip Reeves has the shoulders that Philip Pullman later stood on. He was building futuristic worlds, governed but the ingenious principle of Municipal Darwinism, long before any of the fantasy writers of today. It is testament to his brilliance that his works hold their place on the shelves still. His characters are complex, good people do bad things, and vice versa. There was a member of my book club who came every month but never spoke. When I chose Mortal Engines for us it broke her: she loved it so much that she spoke for the first time ever. She is now reading the rest of the series.

Naomi Novik leaves Harry Potter lying in the dust. Her school of magic is actively trying to kill all it's pupils, and to survive is to graduate. The heroine is the angriest character I have ever met in literature, and what's fantastic is that it's allowed to be a girl. A Deadly Education is the first of a triumph of a trilogy, that accelerates in intensity and complexity, while combining a truly original love story. Technically this book is Young Adults.

So, frankly, get over your pride. Go out to your local bookshop and ask them to recommend what's new and good. Children's booksellers are happier to talk about books all day long than any other genre in a bookshop.

Finally, if I haven't convinced you, read Katherine Rundell's 'Why You Should Read Children's Books, Even Though You Are So Old and Wise.' It's very short, and if she can't convince you, no one can.

I will be continuing this series by posting reviews when I read a good new children's book. That way, you won't even need to bother to do the research for yourself, I will drop great reads into your lap.

So, what are you waiting for? Still hesitating to try a children's book? Go on - I dare you!

Please let me know I'm not alone! Comment if you read children's books too or intend to…

So when @emmeliving invited me onto her challenge immediately after, I politely declined. I was being sensible, I was protecting my energy, I was being safe. Good decision.

But I couldn't help seeing her posts on my feed.

Each day three prompts: a dictionary word, a colour descriptor, and a number. You could respond in whatever creative medium you liked. I could see the people doing it were all making art. And I thought, "I made the right choice, I'm a writer." But I couldn't help seeing those damn, intriguing, inviting, juicy prompts every day, and I noticed something. Even though randomly generated, the moment I read them, I knew their meaning and how they connected for me. I instantly had an idea. 

For a poem.

I've always turned to writing free form poetry when I've needed it. I first seriously started investing my feelings in it when I got severely ill aged 19. I needed a way to process my confusion and agony. Poetry worked. On repeated occasions, in intense experiences in my life, I've returned to writing poetry, again, as an outlet. But then I have never followed up or continued in between, never worked on my craft, never developed my ideas. It was more like a crisis first aid kit.

Because there was always a voice saying, "You can't write poetry. You're not good at this. You don't have the credentials." I don't know where it came from. I've always felt very confident as a prose writer, whether creative writing or academic writing. But something always stopped me from taking my poetry seriously; honouring it with more time; owning the title 'poet.'

Well, the prompts seduced me. I couldn't resist. I started sitting in bed every morning, drinking tea, and posting a poem on my phone.

They started off short, literal, unedited. But it was what happened next that shocked me. They were immediately welcomed, noticed, appreciated, even sometimes applauded. That would have been enough in itself. But then a beautiful bomb went off in my life.

I got a message from a Substack friend saying, "Have you seen this?!" and directing me to a group of creative friends we were both part of. I clicked. And my jaw dropped. Emme had used her considerable digital art skills (of which I have absolutely none) to format my poems, set them on a background of the appropriate colour for each day, and invited the group to celebrate me and my words, which they had all jumped in to do loudly.

It was a bold move: no permission, no hesitation, no apology, no explanation. Bold and beautiful. I've never felt more seen and valued. And completely thrown. What on earth was going on? Where had this come from? And was I actually writing decent poetry?

Well, now I had to. I started waiting longer between reading the prompt and writing the poem, to allow nuances to surface, complexity to appear. I started writing longer pieces. I invested my real feelings that I was living through, and found it was an amazing way to process the huge life changes I'm going through at the moment. And every day my poem got formatted elegantly for me to look back at and love. Such a gift only demanded more investment.

At the end of June, we messaged: "We can't stop now, can we?" Or words to that effect. Everyone else faded away leaving just us two to take it to another level. Still the same three prompts. But now she would find images for me to choose. We co-edited back and forth all morning, critiquing each others work. Yes, that's right, now two poems, because I had, in turn, lured my collaborator away from art into writing. When I read her first poem, I assumed she'd been writing poetry forever, because it was oblique, subtle, intertwined, intertextual, powerful, talented.

She'd never written before.

Honestly, the joy and excitement of creative dialogue is one of the biggest thrills I know. We both know we are safe in eachother's genuine care, so we can either accept edits, or push back and fight for our original words. Both improve our poems and our writing craft. Back and forth, back and forth, until we have 2 final edits, with 2 fitting images, beautifully presented to post. Such fierce joy.

Collaborative, creative excitement at the highest level.

It's been a profound becoming. I now call myself a poet, and I'm going to work at my craft to develop it. I'm not going to stop writing poetry this time. I've awoken to feelings and power I've not felt in a long time, because I've been seen, my words have been understood, and both have been explicitly valued. For various reasons, this hasn't happened in a long time. I've made a new and vital connection in my life, that is only just starting on it's journey. 

I feel more alive.

For the last year I've been in survival mode a lot, enforced by necessity. Now I feel like I'm emerging, wild, free, strong, and ready to explore whatever is coming next in my life. All thanks to poetry, and a friend who dared.

https://canva.link/ayork-poetry-july26https://canva.link/ay-poet

I am now writing regularly again - I've waited a while before saying this to test that it was true.

I may now be forced to take another pause.

What is going on? How do I maintain a writing practice facing the ever present challenges of life? What does it mean to be a writer? Why do I bother?

I used to have a writing practice where I showed up five days a week, and wrote several hours every day. I had a rhythm, and even on less good days, I was amazed at how simply consistently showing up added up, literally in my word count. It got me to halfway through the second draft of my first novel.

Then, five months ago, after much struggling, I had to put writing down because of life stresses. I had a traumatic incident, I decided to separate from my husband, and moved into a new flat on my own, all in swift succession. I had to cope, and that left no energy for writing. Lesson one, life happens and sometimes you have no choice.

But I took it very hard. I grieved losing my writing deeply. I cried for my lost identity, purpose, joy, distraction, occupation. Lesson two, I mattered more. We talk a lot about writing, but very little about the writer. My (ill)health will, and should, always come first, as should my stress, my wellbeing, my relationships, my happiness.

But eventually I realised that stopping writing is not the point. Writers stop writing all the time, for all sorts of reasons. Real writers are the ones who start again. And again, and again. It's the difference between stopping and quitting. I realise now that if I have longevity in my life as a writer, as I hope, I will stop and restart many times over, and, frankly, I don't have the luxury to despair every time. Lesson three, writers stop and start: get over it.

Recently I was faced with the problem though of how and when to restart. How would I know when I was ready? I was out of the habit, and fear had built up. Then a lucky little break came my way. I heard that my two of my best friends here on Substack were doing the 100 day project, and one was opening up a daily space for both accountability and encouragement. I knew I would never get a better time to try than this. That said, I was so scared of reopening my Scrivenor file that I couldn't sleep the night before.

But it's worked. I'm writing regularly again, though not always every day. But on non writing days I do something else creative instead, some art, or a craft project. Has it been hard to return as I feared? Absolutely, totally not! Writing again has been almost entirely joyful. On good days I feel like a red kite, soaring up into the sky being carried by invisible thermals. And, this is really worth noting, I'm writing better and my critique is sharper, because I had time away. Lesson 4: restarting writing doesn't have to be an ordeal. It can fly.

So, why am I still writing about starting and stopping writing? Because I might be about to be forced to put it down again. Can life be this cruel? Yes, and this ruthless. 

One of my medications has literally just stopped being made, and I have no choice but to completely switch to a new one. (Fuck you, Big Pharma). I've done this before, so I know what's coming, I know what a nasty process it is both physically and emotionally, and I know I will, almost definitely, get very sick temporarily until I find a new medication that works.

How can I bear to pause writing again so soon after just restarting? Back to lesson one: life happens and I have no choice. Should I try to fight through? No: lesson two, I matter most and, without a writer, there can be no writing. How will I deal with the heartbreak of stopping doing the thing I love most? Lesson three: I don't have the luxury to waste energy on despair, it happens, and will happen again.

But I've been changed by all this. I feel an older, sadder, wiser, better writer than the naive newbie who started draft one of her first novel. I believe writers are people who will end up writing, whatever happens, because they have to write. Writers with longevity are determined above all. Writers who succeed are resilient and find ways to overcome the bumps in the road. Writers who are successful are the ones prepared to restart after stopping as many times as it takes. Is this a glamorous, sexy, attractive portrayal of a writer sitting inspired by a wafting Muse? No, but I believe it to be true.

So, why bother? Why be a writer if it's tough?

First, I'll answer generally with this phenomenal quotation by May Sarton, who in turn is citing Robert Coles:

"Not everyone can or will do that - give his specific fears and desires a chance to be of universal significance." To do this takes a curious combination of humility, excruciating honesty, and (there's the rub) a sense of destiny or of identity. One must believe that private dilemmas are, if deeply examined, universal, and so, if expressed, have a human value beyond the private, and one must also believe in the vehicle for expressing them, in the talent.'

I believe this is what we are all doing as creatives, expressing the personal in a way that makes it universal. I believe this is the value of art. And to do so, we have to use and believe in our unique, individual voice. As artists, I believe this is why we do what we do.

Why do I write? Quite simply, I have things I want to say. Actually, a lot of things, I have nine book ideas. But this book, my first book, is the one I HAVE to write. I have to get this book out of my system before I can write any other. And write it I will, no matter what challenges I face, how often my health collapses, how many times I stop and restart. I am absolutely determined, and I will keep going somehow, anyhow, until it is done.

But the last lesson has been from this 100 day project. Community carries you. Being a creative is a lonely, tough, mad journey, and the company of others treading similar paths is the most uplifting thing possible. We are the wind beneath eachother's wings. We lift eachother up in bad times, celebrate every tiny win, we inspire and are inspired by eachother. Above all, we are not alone. To everyone doing the project alongside me - you know who you are! - you have lit up my life with more creative joy, motivation, and kindness than I've ever encountered before. An enormous thankyou, it's my privilege to know each one of you. 

I am a writer. I have to write. So I will, whatever it takes.

Please do like or comment if this article interested you - it's nice not to talk into the void!

Researching my non-fiction book about inter-generational trauma continues with the reading of an excellent book by Nessa Carey. But last week it blossomed.

I bought a gorgeous, big, bright yellow research notebook, and started brainstorming everything I could think of that I want to write about. My vision is to combine a narrative of several lives with the science of inheritance woven into it. This means not just reading books, but hunting down people.

The first place to find people is obviously online, and there is plenty there. I will need to trace family trees; I will need to dig up information; I will need photos and images. Of the latter I had a startling win. I found a photo of my great-grandmother on the beach with her two eldest children. My Granny, aged about four, had a mop of, what I knew even though it was in a black and white photo, to be auburn curls. My heart skipped a beat, as I saw in my memory another photo, of another four year old girl with auburn curls: myself. I had never seen my Granny at this age, so I never knew that, at one age, we looked alike.

The lives I am tracing are women's, but I very quickly discovered something that was irritating. The way to find them, was by searching for their husbands. Searching for the women themselves yielded far fewer results than searching for ANY male relatives. Plus ca change; still, it more than grated. It's interesting how the patriarchy is built into the very Google search engine itself.

But the internet won't be enough, I can't find out everything I need as an armchair detective. I'm going to need to go to archives. I've found some good photos in the UK National Archives in Kew, in West London. I'm going to need to travel to West Sussex to find a specific gravestone, followed by Yorkshire for another.

I have decisions to make.

How much am I going to research like a historian, and how much stick to the stories I grew up being told, that have been told down the generations in the oral tradition? How do these differ, and do they differ at all in value, or merely in content?

In a story about several women, how much am I going to include the men? Their husbands, lovers, brothers, sons? How much of a role did these men play in shaping the womens' lives, or how much did the women control their own narrative? One woman literally burned documents before her death in order to control the version of her life story that survived her.

How am I going to weave in the science to show how emotions, experiences, and, ultimately, trauma, can and does get handed down genetically - or, rather, epigenetically. This fairly new and rapidly evolving branch of genetics has many exciting discoveries already, and it is only just getting under way. The relationship between genetics and epigenitics is akin to that between 'nature and nurture', and, as always, the answer is both. It is the answer to why genetically identical twins are not identical in every way. We are not just living blueprints of our genes; our genes and their expression, or not, is shaped by the environment we live in and the emotional and psychological experiences we have. It is utterly fascinating.

This book is going to be a tricky one to pull off, but I'm planning to research it in the background of other writing over the years, gathering the material and educating myself in the science slowly.

For now - exciting news: I'm returning to my WIP! I've been spurred to do this by joining several of my Substack friends in the 100 day challenge. You choose what creative act you commit to doing every day for 100 days. I'm going to have accountability and encouragement, exactly what I need. Am I terrified? Absolutely. Am I going to do it? Yes.

I have no idea what will happen - but I'll report back next week!

But tere's a third fact about me: I am stubborn. Very stubborn. So I am a writer in spite of, around, hiding in the corners from, outwitting, and defying my fatigue. I wanted to write this newsletter about my research following on from last week, but I've not done any because I've had too much fatigue. So I'm going to write instead about how I try to keep the writer in me alive in the face of the constant onslaught of fatigue. I know that many writers out there face considerable obstacles to their writing, many far worse than mine, but this is what my landscape looks like.

I try to keep it simple. When I can write, I write; when I can't write, I don't. This is, in fact, far from simple. Even when fatigue isn't there it looms overhead, creating a culture of fear, that can make me afraid to write in case it makes me ill. When I am fatigued, but want to write, I can get so enraged that all I want to do is force myself to write anyway out of sheer defiance, which only makes me more ill. It's confusing chopping and changing: one day writing freely and ably, the next prone in bed not even able to read. I can't establish a rhythm, keep to a schedule, set goals. But the more I engage with the swirling fog of confused rage all this generates, the worse off I am. So I try to keep it simple: am I well enough to write? OK, then write. Am I ill today? OK, don't write.

On Substack, we all write about writing. But we rarely mention the writer, in other words, behind every bit of writing is a human being. Our writers' minds and creativity are housed and part of physical bodies. These get tired, ill, and need care in order to function optimally, or at all. This was the first lesson my writing mentor taught me as I was haring off into the future, charging at my WIP like a medieval knight in a jousting battle. I am human. I matter too. Writing can wait sometimes, writing is a patient friend and will always be there when I return. Slow down. Stop sometimes. My first lesson was about being a writer who could survive more than a few days of enthused creativity, and generate longevity, not about writing itself. Writing starts with a writer, who depends on self care.

I can't make and keep to a schedule, set word count goals, give myself a set amount of time to finish a draft by, simply because my health is too unpredictable. But I have discovered a word I love, that sounds similar to schedule, but is actually very different: routine. This I take in the loose sense of a daily pattern, not pinned to set times, but which has arisen from listening to my body, and when it typically functions best or worst. I'm not going to describe it in detail, as that feels too exposing, but here are some of the anchor points. Once up and ready for the day, I start by stopping. I open my lovely notebook, and write exactly one page of whatever comes up, using a lovely pen. This might be thoughts, feelings, ideas for writing, a poem - there are no rules. Then, immediately after, I read a bit of whatever book I'm currently reading, usually fiction. I think if I want to write later, priming the day by reading first thing is the best way I can set myself up. It also makes a statement in my life: books matter to me so much that they are the first thing I pay attention to every single day. I know, to have a window of time to do this is a luxury, for which I am very grateful. Once a day I go for a walk, in trees, without phone, wallet, or bag, and just see the green, feel the air, move my limbs, get out of the house. Rest after lunch, even when I don't want to. Especially when I don't want to. My writing time has emerged as peaking at 3-5pm. I don't know why. I've tried changing it, but my system just resists any attempts with vigour, so, if I write, it's usually about then. In between these anchor points are the chores, the admin, errands, life and its work to fit in, but I try and keep the elements of my routine there as a framework. Note: life resists me doing this, and I have to fight to protect my routine from overcrowding my diary. I am realising more and more that my creativity thrives in empty space, and it's up to me to defend this space.

One tactic to outwit fatigue and keep writing is to write things that aren't my WIP. I have other book ideas I can switch to, which are at various different stages of development, and that can sometimes feel less tiring. Instead of a book, I can work on shorter pieces, short stories, flash fiction, episodic works. I can write poetry, which I enjoy but am not very skilled at, but can find more accessible to begin. One of the big signals that I'm really too tired to work is when I dread the thought of even opening up my laptop - so I turn to pen and paper. Good, old, beautiful pen and paper, the feel of my hand moving across a page, is writing in its gentlest, and, for me, loveliest form. I think best with my hand actually writing, so if I'm stuck while typing, writing longhand can sort things out.

It's important to remember that writing is just one form of creativity, and that creativity thrives on variety. So, even if I can't write, I can still be creative. I love playing with colour, but am not great at art, so I do painting by numbers, or colouring. I do tapestry or cross stitch sometimes. I've got my eye on a 'make your own coasters out of clay' kit online - in the shape of biscuits! I'm currently making a big composite picture with my inner child, we're having a lot of fun.

So, these are the things I do to try and still be a writer while juggling fatigue. However, one important thing remains to be mentioned: I grieve. Having creative energy but not the physical ability to follow it through is torture. All the potential, completely impossible to realise. Frustration is a totally inadequate word.

However, over the twenty-seven years I have had fatigue, one learning stands out: victory lies in tactical defeat. Give in, stop, rest, and, if you do it for long enough, energy WILL return eventually, for me. That's where I am now. I have progressed from not being able to dress or leave the house, to having half a day of energy. That's a massive health achievement for me. Now is the critical phase. Start doing too much too soon, and I'll slide backwards into fatigue; keep resting, keep saying no, keep the diary empty, and maybe next week's newsletter will actually be about research or writing. Here's hoping…

Every time I so much as show my Creative Creature my laptop, let alone suggest opening it, she backs away in alarm at top speed, and hides in a corner till I put it away. She still doesn't want to write. I'm learning to respect her, rather than be frustrated with her, because, deep down, I know she's right. I'm still perma-exhausted and need to be resting, recovering, processing, not producing. The well, as they say, is bone-dry.

Then I panicked a bit, because, if I'm not writing, what can I write about in my newsletters? I was in a cafe when I was having said panic, so I got out my notebook and started brainstorming things to do with writing that I could make my newsletters about. I had some ideas, which will be coming your way over the next few weeks, but among them, a word popped up. Research.

I'd forgotten that writing books needs research. I know, it's blindingly obvious, but there we go. At that point I felt my Creative Creature suddenly peering over my shoulder at the word 'research', asking, "What's that?" I explained that it would mean we got to do lots of reading, underline important bits in books in pencil, buy notebooks to make research notes in, and we could do it wherever we felt like: at my desk if we wanted to feel important, in a cafe, in a library, in bed. She only had one question for me: "No laptop?" "No laptop, just books, pen and paper," I replied. Out of nowhere, she pulled out an enormous pair of spectacles, balanced them, with immense self-importance on the bridge of her nose, and said, "When do we start?"

Blimey. Result!

So, to outline the landscape, currently on my laptop I have nine Scrivenor files, one for each of the nine book ideas I have. Don't be fooled, I'm currently only working on file 1, so there's a long way to go. Eight are fiction, one of which may, or may not, be the only children's book, and just one is non-fiction. They are all in very different stages, some merely a title and some notes; some fully worked through plans; some partial first drafts. I've been very clear about only working on one at a time. I work on my first novel most of the time, and generally play with my other ideas as holiday projects. Some of them don't really need much research, but two of them need a lot of research.

Once I realised that my Creative Creature was up for doing research, I picked my non-fiction book to start with. This is going to be a real-life case study, told in story form, of inter-generational trauma. As well as researching the lives of the people involved, I need to research epigenetics, and upgrade my school basics of genetics to a higher level.

This is exciting!

I don't fit easily into a box, and I'm both an artist and a scientist. The opportunity to go back and learn more science, and in one of the currently predominant emerging fields in biochemical and medical research, is brilliant. I love learning new things, I'm a total library and study nerd, and now I get to be one WITH a genuine purpose to it all. I could not be happier.

So I have started reading 'The Epigenetics Revolution' by Nessa Carey. She writes lucidly and engagingly, and it's fascinating. When she first mentioned messenger RNA, I couldn't stop myself from drawing a smiley face in the margins because I was so happy: mRNA and ribosomes were always my favourite thing in Biology, and now they are coming into my life again. Hooray! (I warned you I was a study geek, and I'm unashamed, so there).

Next stop, go into town when I can find the energy, and buy a couple of research notebooks. Yes! I get to buy myself new notebooks! I know from reading posts on Substack that there are many of you here to whom, like me, this brings an insane joy. And I actually need them - bonus.

So that is what me and my Creative Creature have been up to this week: getting to grips with epigenetics. Going slowly, but we're both loving it. At last, I've found something writing-related that I'm actually in a state to be able to do. It also still leaves lots of rest time, and cafes, and nature walks, and sleep, and the Winter Olympics. All. Good. Stuff.

I'm slowly re-filling the well...

Mistake. Big mistake.

My little Creative Creature stopped dead in her tracks. She ripped her hand out of mine. Stamped her foot, just once, but in undeniable utter defiance and scorn. As my bemusement mounted, and a pathetic "But I only - " dribbled out of my mouth, she folded her arms across her chest, sat down on the ground cross legged, and began to hold her breath. I panicked. "We could just read a little bit!" Her face went red. "We could just open Scrivenor but not read anything!" Her face went puce. "We could just open the laptop!" Her face turned a mottled purple. "OK! OK! We won't do anything at all!" She let out a huge sigh of breath and looked up at me to say one word only. "Promise?"

That went well. So much for back to writing.

She said "No." My body said "No." My feelings were saying "No." Yet again, I was listening to none of them and had fallen straight into the trap of being brain-lead. My Creative Creature, body, and feelings have never, once, been wrong. But I neither listen to them nor trust them (though I'm trying to learn to). My brain is frequently completely off the mark, and yet I still race after it as it churns out plans and goals utterly unrelated to reality.

I'm thinking of getting back into writing? Well, let's just take a look around my life and see what's going on at the moment before jumping into anything. I've recently separated from my husband, and we will be going through a (loving, but still) divorce. Huge. I moved house a month ago, living on my own for the first time again in about twenty years, and with some decorating, sorting, unpacking still going on. Huge. Both the above are happening against the permanent backdrop of managing three chronic illnesses, all of which are exacerbated by the stress. Huge.

Is this a good time to pick up the draft of my novel? Of course it isn't. I'm a complete nutbar for even having the idea. Thank god my Creative Creature and body knew better, and now rule the roost, pretty ruthlessly, as you saw. I'm still going to meet my writing mentor tomorrow, but I'm going to run some different, gentle, joyful ideas past her, which came up as I was doodling in my journal. I'll report back...

So if I'm not writing, what should I be doing? I think two things, broadly speaking.

Yesterday I watched a Substack live conversation between @katetremills and @michellereeveswrites, which was both inspiring and reassuring. I highly recommend finding the post and watching it. They spoke from lived experience about the joys and challenges of living a life including creativity, and their warmth and humour was a delight. But one thing really stayed with me: they talked about there being different seasons in life, and the need to cultivate the ability to move between seasons when they changed. A season in our life might be a time frame, a career, a relationship, a location, but their point was that seasons do change and we need to allow ourselves and our identities to change with them. One season ends, and we may need to grieve it's loss, be thankful for its riches, let go of some of the people or places or things or habits associated with it; at the same time, a new season is starting, neither better nor worse, but different, and we need to be open to it, curious about it, welcome into our lives new people, inhabit new places, adopt a new routine, be prepared for joyful surprises in the midst of our fear of the unknown.

It strikes me that enormous seasonal change is going on in my life, and I was a risk of ignoring it by trying to plunge back into the old as soon as possible. Wait. Stop. Breathe. Look around. This is a new season.

Emotionally, I need to process all the feelings that separating lovingly from my husband brings up. We're going to stay in eachothers' lives as friends, but what the hell will that look like? I need to feel out where the new boundaries are going to lie, what our relationship evolves into in the future. I don't know yet. I've got a lot of feeling and thinking to do, and a lot of tending to a wounded heart, because coming to our decision wasn't easy.

Physically, my entire environment is different. I have a new home, which, luckily, already feels like home, but I haven't even finished unpacking yet while work is being done. It's also in a different part of my home town, which has changed my whole relationship to the city. My local neighbourhood is new, I go to different cafes and go on different walks. I need to discover my new routine geographically, and nest into my new home.

So, both physically and emotionally, I'm exploring a new landscape, and that takes up a lot of energy. If there's none left for writing, well, no-one will die and my manuscript won't disappear. I need to live this change in seasons in my life as a human being, if that human being is going to write anything at all.

I can't show you my emotional landscape, but I can share with you my emerging creative environment that I am consciously creating to nurture future writing.

I've got a fabulous writing desk.

Inside my desk there is a cubby-hole in which I've put: a sprig of heather from the North York Moors, shells from Brighton Beach, a pebble from Boggle Hole, an ornament given to me by my first ever therapist, a keyring that matches my brother's, a tiny penknife that belonged to my grandfather.

I've got a great coaster.

I've also assembled a table for art and sewing projects, and chosen a teal and gold wallpaper for one wall.

I'm building a nest in which to rear all the books I want to write.

So, first things first, one step at a time, and above all, get my priorities in order.

I believe it's worth writing about this, because every writer will experience periods of not writing, and the journey back from this is critical. In their exceptional book, 'Art and Fear', David Bayles and Ted Orland make the point that 'quitting is fundamentally different from stopping. The latter happens all the time. Quitting happens once. Quitting means not starting again - and art is all about starting again.' So I'm exploring what my process of starting again looks like.

I'm taking it in phases. I'm not sure exactly how many there are, what they are, or how long it will take - of course I don't, that would be far too helpful and encouraging. Instead, I will find out, one at a time, as I go. It's all about holding my nerve right now, and clinging to the belief that, in spite of not writing for months, I AM still a writer.

Last week, I was in phase 1. This is basically rest, recovery, and looking after myself. The last few months have been incredibly challenging, stressful and exhausting, and have left me physically and emotionally shattered. In a word, I'm knackered. Because I'm desperate to get back to writing, it is really tempting to try to ignore this and take a superhero approach: I could force myself, push through, no pain - no gain, fight harder, bludgeon myself into writing my novel. But I'm not doing this, for two reasons.

Firstly, if there is going to be any writing, there needs to be a writer. I want writing to be a long career, and, unless I keep myself healthy, rested, balanced, relatively sane, and functioning in my everyday life, I can't sustain writing long-term. It's really easy to get in our heads about writing, and make it all about searching for elusive muses, and getting blocks, and chasing inspiration, but as a writer I'm also a human being, and I need to be OK. So, if I want to be a successful writer, self-care is vital. That applies to all of my non-writing life, and includes the option of not writing, which was what I was recently forced to choose. Incidentally, one of the hardest, most upsetting, but wisest choices I've ever had to make. So ignore your humanity at your peril. Simply put, you won't write well if you are ill, exhausted, depleted, upset, and stressed.

Secondly, I have been hugely inspired by a newly published book, 'Joyful Creating', by @KateTremills. She advocates brilliantly that the source of all creativity is joy. Too simple? Don't be deceived. How often do you actually do things simply for pleasure? When was the last time you tried something completely new? Do you ever turn your phone off, or go for a walk with it turned off but your senses turned on? Do you do anything with your hands like art or craft? She makes a strong case that we need to feed and nurture our creativity every day in a myriad of multi-sensory ways, rather than just slamming ourselves in front of a laptop and demanding it to produce something. I buy it. As I buy the idea that, unless I'm enjoying the process (mostly), what is the point of creativity? So, I believe you won't write well unless you're engaging in playfulness, a variety of different forms of creativity, not just writing, tuned into all your senses' experiences, and feeling the ups and downs of each wave on the sea of your life.

So what does phase 1 look like?

A lot of sleep, early nights, and lie-ins.

Staying in my pyjamas all day and not leaving the house.

Watching TV lying on the sofa feeling like a vegetable.

Feeling pretty terrible overall - I'm in a crash, I'm meant to feel like this.

Drinking tea in the bath.

Crying. A lot.

Boredom. Often.

Trying to read and then swearing loudly because my brain is too tired to focus.

Painting by numbers, very soothing and lovely to bathe in different colours.

Sometimes making myself a nourishing meal; sometimes having cereal for supper.

Colouring-in books.

Leaving the house for a little walk then being immediately exhausted and thinking "God, why did I do this?"

Too much coffee some days when I just want to shake myself out of feeling like a corpse.

If this sounds weird, for reference I manage three chronic health conditions, so when I crash, I crash hard.

So where am I at the end of the week? Today I got up, showered, dressed in actual clothes, walked to a cafe for a morning coffee, did some journaling, and am writing this. Less is more. Friends, phase 1 is officially working. For the rest of the day, I plan after this to walk to a little chalk stream nearby to get some green trees and running water into my life, do a bit of art, watch TV.

Next week I have the stress of workmen being in all week decorating my new flat, so I will need to navigate that carefully as I know I'm not done with resting yet. BUT I'm going to add in one more thing to make it phase 1A: I'm going to open Scrivenor. Hopefully, I will have the courage to read bits of my novel so far, remind myself of what I intend from my notes and synopsis/timeline of events that I have plotted already. The main aim is to challenge The Fear. My motivation is that next Sunday I am meeting up with my writing mentor to check-in for the first time in months. Hopefully this will inspire and energise me, and fear of having nothing to say to her will hopefully be greater than The Fear of opening Scrivenor at all.

So next week's newsletter won't come out at the weekend as usual, but once I'm back from the meeting in Brighton (yes, I get to see the sea too!), and we'll see if phase 2 is lurking anywhere on the horizon. Come back to my next newsletter to find out!

Writing can start, writing can stop. The challenge every writer faces every day is how to keep going.

As I posted recently, this is an intentional reset as I come back. I joined Substack as a writer, to write about the process of writing my first novel, and find a community of other writers. This is what I am coming back to. For those of you wanting divorce updates, there won't be any, unless it interacts with my creative process. If anyone is disappointed by this, feel free to unsubscribe, no offence taken. We're all here for different things.

So, the bad news is that I broke my toe this week; and the good news is, I broke my toe this week. I have a toe paradox!

So, I'm not being all metaphorical, I really did break my little toe this week, and can now only hobble on a boot and crutches. Basically, I'm confined to my house for the next few months. There's no treatment, just rest and ice. At first, I cannot possibly find words strong enough to describe my rage. I had just made it through a marathon of life challenges, and now this. I'll be honest, I sat and howled.

Once I had quietened down a little, however, and was lying with my foot elevated contemplating my mound of damp tissues, I felt a stirring of confusion. I felt like a jigsaw whose pieces weren't in place, so I couldn't see the picture. But I felt that there was a picture there. I recognised that it was the confusion that accompanies a process unfolding within me, so I sat with it, picked up the end of the thread, and followed it into the labyrinth. My thoughts and feelings twisted and turned. Then realisation hit me.

Breaking my toe was no coincidence.

A side note: I was brought up to entirely ignore and reject my feelings and my body, and the fact that it and I now have a relationship at all is the outcome of years in therapy and a lot of hard-learned lessons. One of the ways I have learned to listen to my body is because it has literally forced me to, by yelling loudly, and physically intervening in my life to stop me, or show me something, or force me to feel what I need to. And I knew, from past experience, that this was it doing so yet again.

Breaking my toe was my body staging an intervention.

Now, you can call me mad, but the timing is perfect. It forces me to take three months completely off - which is exactly what I need right now BUT would never allow or give myself. My body knew that, and acted. I've realised that this means I get time for deep rest, which will enable me to recover, process, and restore myself after getting to a point of being emotionally and physically shattered after the last few months.

Then it occured to me that, once, rested, I could view it as a creative retreat. I could refind joy in art, sewing, baking, reading, films, singing - all the things I used to love but have been so frazzled I haven't touched in ages. AND - I could do my job of writing. In fact, even if I didn't want to, I would probably be forced to write just so I don't go mad from boredom at staying in the house. But, I do want to write. I want to write very much indeed. Putting the second draft of my novel down two-thirds of the way through was devastatingly hard. This is a chance to deep-dive back into my writing, with most dilemmas and distractions simply unavailable, and really surge forwards.

Am I scared of picking it up again? Definitely. Do I know how I'm going to go about it? Not a clue. But will I find a way? Absolutely.

So, I'm thanking my body for intervening, making peace with the pain and limitations that are frustrating, and embarking on my very own creative retreat determined to make the most of it. I'm excited to share with you things that are coming up. What I'm going to start out by doing! The project I'm currently finalising of decorating my very own study/creative room. A fun little club I'm going to be starting for my followers. And the progress of my novel - we're approaching the climax, so it's getting juicy.

I'm happy to be back here. I hope some of you will join me for the journey. I'm excited to see how it's going to turn out...

But I'm a writer, and writers show up whatever, right? Writers write even though tornados are going on beyond their desk, right? Also, I'm really excited about my novel at the moment. I'm three quarters of my way through the second draft, and it's building to the climax. So I simply couldn't bear to put it down right now, it's been thundering along.

But I started getting warning signs. Writing started feeling like a should, simply because I'm so tired, and I knew each day if I wrote it would be because I forced it. And no good writing comes from being forced. Then my body kept getting overwhelmed by stress, and I would need to put writing down for a few days to recover. The next time it was for a few weeks. Picking up and putting down my writing with no consistency was making me really unhappy, and still I didn't get the message. So then my body staged the biggest PTSD blowout of my life that lasted 48 hours, and terrified the living daylights out of me.

Finally, I was listening to my body. Finally I knew I had to make changes just to survive the next few months. But I didn't know what to do. I already seemed to be solely focused on self care, and my daily routine and writing have been the biggest support to my wellbeing in my life, so I was still clinging to them because I felt so lost.

So my body staged an intervention. I woke up last Tuesday and realised I couldn't face a shower. I couldn't face getting dressed. All I could do was sit in bed. I started to cry, a lot, because I was frightened and didn't know what my body wanted of me. But what I did know was that it had had to take desperate measures to communicate. It pinned me down in bed, forced me to stop everything else, and created space for me to feel, process, realise.

And in that space, I did realise.

I need to stop writing for a few months. Yes, normally writing is an anchor, but these few months are highly abnormal. I can't do everything, and I've been trying to keep normal going on top of all the abnormal temporary demands. And they are temporary. Once houses have been bought and sold, all the calls and emails with solicitors and accountants will vanish.

But stop writing? That is agony, honestly, even though the minute I thought it it felt right. I have had to take time to actively grieve this loss, even though it's temporary. Writing is a huge part of my identity, my purpose, my joy, my stability, my time. I have not a doubt in the world I will return when ready. It still hurts like hell.

So what does a writer do when not writing? Firstly, I need lots of physical rest. All rules are gone. If all my phonecalls to solicitors are made in my pyjamas, that's fine (note to self, no zoom calls!). Secondly, read. Just enjoy deep diving into reading when I have the energy. This can only benefit my writing. Thirdly, I'm hugely inspired by reading 'Joyful Creating' by @katetremills. I'm reconnecting with how and why I create and write, to make sure when I return it is driven by joy, courage, and excitement, not forced while depleted.

Has anyone else reading this taken time out? How did you cope? I'd love to know so do leave a comment!

But I'm learning this. If I want a career as a writer, I have to accept there will be times I cannot, and should not, write.

This may seem a little less close to writing about the novel-writing process than usual, but bear with me, because I am writing about voices. My voice.

As authors, at the end of the day, all we have is our voice. It is uniquely ours, it contains what we have to say, which is what drives us to write. It is deeply personal. A writer is their voice. A good writer is one who refuses to compromise their voice to suit other people's tastes or expectations. At the same time, a good writer is one who listens to critique, who can learn how to write better from their readers' responses. It is give and take. But, in the end, you know your favourite writers by their voices. You love that voice.

I was brought up explicitly not to have a voice. This was definitely linked to the fact that I was a girl. I don't know how I knew this, because no one ever said it to me, but I did know it. Being a woman was a bad thing to be, and women shouldn't have voices. The trouble was, I didn't accept this. I had things I wanted to say, and I wanted my personhood to be heard. This was punished, usually by silence, and I was taught that I should not use my voice, if I ever did find it. I should be mousey quiet, especially if men were present to be listened to, I should take up the least physical space possible in the world. I should try not to exist.

The problem was, I did exist, and my body did take up physical space, and I had a voice, and I wanted to be heard, and I DISAGREED. Luckily, I got away from my upbringing, and found friends to showed me life could be otherwise. I chose to become the difficult woman I was brought up never to be. One of the ways I found my voice was through writing, and one of the ways I use it and grow it is in my writing.

But right now, I'm feeling sensitive, hurt, and paranoid about my actual voice, because something has happened three times in the last few months. It may sound small, but it hurts deeply.

I spend a lot of time in cafes, usually writing on my own, but sometimes meeting up with a friend. Now, I want to make clear, I am a big defender of people respecting that a public place is a shared space, and everyone needs to be respectful and sensitive to differing needs of their companions in this space. I understand that there can be especial difficulties for neurodivergent people, with light and noise sensitivities. I'm also a fan of basically not being rude. I know sometimes when I'm happy my voice, can go loud with joy, but neither I, nor my brother, nor my friends (I've specifically checked) think of me as a loud person.

Three times, I have been talking to a friend in a cafe, and someone has approached my table to tell me I am talking too loudly. Sometimes they couch it in patronising faux-politeness, informing me that surely I don't want to expose my own privacy, as if expecting thanks for looking out for me. Sometimes it is simply a rudely delivered observation with the person immediately walking away.

Every time it is acutely embarassing, deeply hurtful to have a complete stranger make a personal comment, and I am reduced to tears in public. Annoyingly, my first response is to apologise, but now I am so hurt that I am getting angry. Of course I don't want to be 'that person' in a cafe who is braying into a phone and everyone is silently hating. But I'm so aware of that I usually don't even take calls in cafes, or else I whisper. But here's the interesting bit - I'm not on the phone, I'm talking to a real person sitting at my table, and none of them have once said to me I'm talking too loudly, and they are right next to me. More to the point, they disagree with the person criticizing me afterwards. Are they just being nice? Or is something else going on. Because I've noticed a trend.

It's always women. With very quiet voices. No man has ever had a problem with the volume of my voice.

Is this a coincidence, or is the fact that I am now a confident-voiced woman a threat to women who were brought up like me to be quiet and undeserving of being heard or existing and taking up space in a public place? Do they not like that I'm breaking their rules? And are some of them mean enough to take it out on me? Or maybe they feel they are doing their duty in educating me as they were, as women should be educated - to be quiet. At the end of the day, they are definitely being rude, and often mean, things I would never be to a complete stranger. Part of being in a shared space is accepting that it might not be perfect for you, in fact, it cannot be perfect for everyone, and the number of minor irritations I have tolerated is huge, without dreaming of criticizing the person because, news flash, it's not all about what suits me. Or any one individual.

So I'm feeling paranoid, hurt, and confused. I am going to do my best to be self-aware in public spaces, but I think I want to start calling people out on their rudeness, when I dare. The worst is it awakens the voices from my childhood: that I should be less, that my voice isn't valid, that I shouldn't be heard. And that makes me furious. That is not true for any human being.

I don't want to be less me. I don't want to whisper my joy. Is occasional loudness really such a bad crime anyway? Couldn't it be my human spirit expressing itself loudly because loudness is appropriate for the level of joy, or anger, or pain, or belief? Is it a crime to express my human emotions freely? Is it a crime to make a mistake even if I am talking loudly occasionally that deserves public rebuke?

Apparently, for some women, yes. And that hurts.

I feel a confused mix of ready to apologise and ready to fight. But ultimately I believe everyone has a right to express their own voice, and I do not believe that voice not suiting someone else merits very public censure.

I've been writing my novel for four years, and all that time I've known, and been told, and read, that every writer needs to find community. Other writers with whom to compare and hone your craft, and other humans to support you on the glorious ups and the despairing downs that are part and parcel of the writing process.

Fine, I thought. Simple. Just join a local writing group and, hey presto - my ready-formed community is there waiting for me. Well, that's not how it has worked out.

My town does actually have a writers' group, which I promptly googled. But I was instantly put off. Every year starts with a formal AGM, and the calendar seems to mainly consist of lectures from authors, and fiercely competitive competitions. I confess, I was so put off I've not even tried it.

But I found another writers' group in a neighbouring town, and this seemed smaller and friendlier, and actually focused on its members work. I tried attending this and it was everything it seemed, and very welcoming. We would spend the first half going round saying what we were working on. It was perfectly fine to say, "This month I've been overwhelmed by life and got nothing done," as it was to say, "My novel has just had great feedback from some Beta readers." One elderly lady only wrote poetry in the middle of the night if she had insomnia. Other people were writing novels seeking publication. One had a successful YA series already in print. All were welcome.

The second half of the evening anyone could read out some of their work, and invite supportive feedback. One of the most helpful things were the tips: on formatting, useful websites, a local publishing contact who welcomed applications. As well as the encouragement and understanding. I remember us all nodding and laughing as one lady said that this was the only safe place to tell people, without them thinking her insane, that not only had her main character suddenly, and against all her intentions, died, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it; but also that her characters had all ganged together and demanded that her standalone novel which she had carefully planned needed, in fact, to be a trilogy. We had all experienced characters going rogue, and she had all our empathy!

It's a really lovely group, but two problems emerged. It was monthly, and this wasn't enough to really get to know anyone properly, especially as different people came each month. Also, it was in the evening and a 30min drive away. I have health conditions that mean the evening is the worst time of day for me, and I gave up my car a while ago. Unfortunately the bus takes 1.5 hours each way! I can still join them for when they do zoom meetings, but it's not really enough. So that has fallen by the way.

While searching, I wasn't totally isolated, as I work with an author as a mentor, and she is a brilliant part of my writing community. I send her 7000 words every month, she emails them back covered in critique, and we speak for an hour on the phone about how the novel is coming along. I found her because she tutored an online writing course that I did during lockdown - what things didn't we all do during lockdown? Immediately, even just via email, she totally got my writing. I was surprised by this until I went away and read all her books - and I totally got her writing back. We have a great relationship. She says it is her role to tell me what is good as well as what is not good, which provides for really balanced, encouraging critique. But she is also great at reminding me that I am human, that life happens, that sometimes I won't be able to write, that sometimes I need to take a break and shouldn't write, and that writing a novel is a long, hard process and I won't survive it unless I can learn to be kind to myself as well as hard-working. One of those I have no problem with, the other is a learning in progress; you can guess which.

I thought of setting up my own writing group in my home town, but don't feel ready to do that for a variety of reasons. Then, one day, I was noodling around on my phone, and stumbled across an article: 'Medium versus Substack: which is better?' "What was either?" was my question, and, after a lot more scrolling around on my phone, this was how I found this wonderful place, and all you lovely people.

I hate social media, and would never have expected authentic connection of the depth I have found here online. But Substack has become a core part of my writing community. I'm not here for numbers, and I don't even know how many subscribers I do or don't have. I don't care. But I have genuine friends whose posts I recognise and respond to, and they respond back. I go and buy their books to get to know them better. I sometimes feel like it's a void, but other times I'm lifted up high by a loving response. When life stress overwhelmed me for the last four months and I had to take a break from writing, which I found hugely challenging and distressing on many levels, Substack was the one thing that kept my identity as a writer alive.

Then, when I was despairing of finding any human being to meet and write with, three arrived in short succession. Yes, just like buses.

I'm a member of a book club at my local bookshop, and afterwards sometimes people go and grab something to eat afterwards. I've never been able to join in because of my evening health problems, but a bit of improvement meant I did for the first time. I found myself sitting next to a girl I didn't know but liked, who turned out to be an artist who creates graphic novels, works part time, and yes - would be up for meeting in a cafe for work/chat sessions! YES! We've met weekly a few times, and it's glorious.

It made me realise that community doesn't have to be a group, it can be one on one. In fact, this can be simpler to arrange and navigate than a group dynamic sometimes.

But it also can be a group. Along came bus number two. There's an international organisation called Shut Up and Write I stumbled across online, and I tried the nearest one to me which is in Waterstones bookshop, Piccadilly. For those of you who don't know, this is an enormous bookshop, five huge floors groaning with treasures. I could happily pitch a tiny tent in a corner and live there. We met in one of the cafes. We all said our name and what we were working on, a timer was set for forty-five minutes and, yes, we all worked in silence. Fifteen minute break to chat and stretch, then repeat. At the end you could work on, leave, meet people. I loved it. It's every Saturday morning if I want it. The only barrier is my perma-crap health means I can't always make the journey into London. But when I was there I felt I belonged. These were my people. We all got it, we understood.

Heading for all things books lead to bus number three, just the other day. My town is lucky enough to have THREE bookshops, and in one of them I'm friends with most of the booksellers, some better than others. I go in there a lot just to chat and just smell the books. Well, I was outraged to discover while chatting to one of the booksellers that they knew I was a writer, but I didn't know they were a poet and, like me, spends their life working in cafes. Well, I'm never one not to grab a chance. Would they be interested in co-working? They gave me their number! We're in the process of arranging our first meet up, and I couldn't be more excited.

So there we go, a composite community: a mentor, Substack, two local co-writers to meet in person, and an in person group there for me when I can get to it. Is it what I imagined my writing community would look like? Absolutely not. Is it emerging as just right for me? Absolutely yes.

A note to end with: nothing beats sitting down alone for just getting my novel written. But I'm a person, and I need more than this, which I am gradually finding. I feel very lucky.

Do post what your community looks like! I'd be fascinated to know what works for other writers.

I didn't want to do any creative activities. I couldn't understand why not. I could feel the lack of them and the need for them, yet my instincts each day were all pulling me towards very passive activities. I was tempted to try and force myself, but one thing I have learned in my life: nothing good ever comes from forcing myself. I don't mean a bit of healthy discipline to start writing when not in the mood; I mean truly going against my instincts, however little they make sense to me.

Then the huge recent emotional crisis with my husband, and, although still married and in a relationship, we are now living separately. Firstly, there was the sheer physical exhaustion, and I was astonished by how much rest I needed. But I was lucky enough to go on two short trips this summer, to Italy and Yorkshire, and I properly relaxed. I let go, slept, sat and read, felt the warmth on my skin, swam in a lake, drove across the purple moors glorious in the sunshine. All the time - no WIP. After a terrible battle with myself, I gave in, admitted I simply couldn't write, and took several months off.

It has been restorative.

Now I am back home, and living on my own, and I have discovered a specific feeling: floaty, in-between, vague, restless, suspended, new. I have realised what I now have.

Space.

It's frightening, and my first instinct is to schedule stuff to fill it, so I feel safe. But I'm choosing very deliberately not to do that. I'm choosing to sit with the discomfort and fear, to feel it, and explore what space feels like. It's been so long since I had it; my husband and I had got into a very unhealthy dynamic and didn't realise how entangled we were in each other.

From feeling this space, a cognitive reframing has emerged. What if I don't view it as emptiness, but availability?

Availability of my heart, mind, and body to engage in creative activities. Availability of time and energy to re-engage with hobbies. Things I used to do: tons of baking, composing music as settings for poems or my own writing, embroidery and tapestry, colouring in books, printing out photos for frames or albums, trying to teach myself to use my sewing machine. Suddenly I realise, until I have space, availability, I'm not going to be able to do any of them. I also realise exactly why I didn't want to be creative.

I was totally occupied with just surviving. I was dried out, ground down, life was reduced to the bare minimum. Because it needed to be, because I needed to get through what was happening in my life. But maybe now, if I can tolerate the fear, I can use the space to rediscover creative joy.

One of the hallmarks of creative joy is it's selfish in the very best of ways. It's all about what makes me thrive, what lights up my face with a smile, what swells my chest with pride. It's individual, unique, and about me growing and filling out as a person. And while it's the absence of my husband that is giving me space for all this, I will be bringing the harvest of my creative joy back to invest in our relationship. I'll be more me.

The way forward? Baby steps: wobbly, uncertain, faltering, always going forward, small, many falls and getting back up again, confidence building, achievements. There's no rush.

But could this be the start of my little creative creature waking up and wanting to play again? I truly hope so, because I've missed it's quirky presence. I've missed being creative in ways other than writing. I've missed joy.

Space at least gives me availability for joy.

It's children's books.

I do NOT mean the 'vintage classics'. I am talking modern children's' literature which is alive, well, and kicking up a storm of trouble wherever it can. The books I read are full of words like wild, brave, fierce, joyful, afraid, alone, bubbling, fresh, tearful. The protagonists are usually in it alone - an orphan, or lost, or abandoned, and so it is down to them to rescue themselves. Only the fire they find in their own bellies will save them.

If you want to read a proper case for why adults should read children's literature, there is someone far better qualified than me. Katherine Rundell is one of the preeminent children's authors of today, and has written: 'Why You Should Read Children's Books, Even Though You Are So Old and Wise.' It's very short, and very good.

But if you want a flavour, I'll give you a whistlestop tour of what I've been reading and some of my favourites so you can see what's out there. Believe me, there's a lot.

1) I'll start with the best. Read anything by Katherine Rundell. Just do it, don't ask why, trust me on this. Her use of language tastes delicious and is chosen with the precision of a diamond cutter. Her characters embolden me by the sheer largeness of their lives. She's original. Each book is very different from the rest. I'll admit it like a toddler, she's my favourite.

At my book club, one month we are going to do children's books (mainly at my demand!), and I've been tasked with selecting two for the group to choose from. At first I went to my bookshelves and thought it would be impossible to narrow it down. But then I suddenly just knew. Both are from the 9-12 section of a bookshop. My happy place.

2) Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve. This is a classic and brilliant adventure story. It is set in a dystopian future, where the surface of the earth is a barren wasteland and all towns and cities are on wheels and move around. The principal of 'municipal Darwinism' rules: big cities hunt smaller towns to ingest them and break them down for scrap to use for themselves. The characters are especially good because they are not black and white: good people do bad things. It is the first book in a quartet, and if you like it I recommend reading all four, because the ending is the best ending to a quartet of books I have ever read.

3) October, October by Katya Balen. This is an emotionally intense book, and contains an often repeated line that is so emotionally devastating, so factually economical, and speaks of such huge untold stories behind it that if I could ever write a line that brilliant, I would die happy. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is without you reading the book. A girl lives off grid in the woods with her father, her mother having left when she was little to go back to the city. When the father has an accident and has to go into hospital, the girl has to go to live with her hated mother in the city. How you dig deep to find connections where there seem to be none, how you face a relationship in ruins head on and try to imagine how to rebuild it out of nothing, how love can overwhelm hate eventually given persistence and time - all are explored with a raw love for what it means to be a messy human being. A wild, wonderful book.

So, if you want to try a children's book, there's three suggestions. What else is out there that I've read recently? Here's a flavour:

Shadow Thieves by Peter Burns. A school story, but one for elite thieves, also battling a shadowy global, political conspiracy. A brilliantly written, fun, pacy read.

Wolf Siren by Beth O'Brien. A re-telling of Little Red Riding Hood, honouring feminism and highlighting disability. I love the tag line: 'Inside every good girl is a wolf'. Yes. In it the women of a village have the power to turn into wolves, but are oppressed and limited by a fearful patriarchy.

Wildlands by Brogen Murphy. In the future, a large portion of the UK has been rewilded. Two children get lost in it and have to survive. But interwoven with a cracking adventure story is an environmental war cry, and an emotionally nuanced storyline of whether a non-biological mother is your mother: yes, but what happens if you found this out by accident as a child and had to process what your two different mothers mean to you on your own?

The Line They Drew Through Us by Hiba Noor Khan. This combines the story of the friendship of three children with the event of the partition of India. It manages to be both personal and political, neither overshadowing the other, and the author is a brilliant story teller. It also made me realise I know so little about this huge historical event, and sent me running to the history section of my local bookshop.

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik. The first of a trilogy. Forget Harry Potter, this YA magic school book is dark, dangerous, and permanently angry. It's originality and brilliance is breath taking. My greatest joy at the minute is watching my eldest nephew race through it, texting me in horror at every plot twist!

There we go, a brief love letter to children's literature. Intrigued? Try one. Go on, I dare you…

I've experienced many different challenges already. I've stared at a blank screen helplessly. I've been afraid to even open my laptop. I've had to rewrite the plot structure of my novel at least three times. I've realised most of my characters need lots of work to enrich them with depth and complexity if they are to be at least believable, let alone interesting. I've realised that the majority of my first draft will end up in the bin, because my second has moved on so much it's like having to start over and write a different book. I've written the ending of my novel five times. And I've had many, many a day of grinding out a few paragraphs that will probably end up being cut anyway.

But in all of these, I was involved in a struggle. I was grappling with a specific writing problem. There was something to do, or not do. My challenge now is different, it's worse. It's amorphous and the only thing I can do is wait it out. Wait. And it's killing me.

Right now, and in fact for the last few months, I can't write. I just can't. My life is going through some huge changes on every front simultaneously: emotionally, practically, and physically. It is taking everything I have just to cope, and even then, I'm not always coping. With all of that, I honestly can't write my novel.

It's torturing me. Every day I think, "Could I? Should I try today?" To be honest, I think I'll look back and be astonished I even considered trying to write given the enormous life challenges I'm facing right now. But I miss writing. I'm frustrated I'm not writing. I want to be writing. When I can write, I reap so many benefits of purpose, joy, and achievement from it. And I want to get on and finish my bloody novel!

So I've discovered my hardest struggle to date, is how can I remain a writer when I can't write?

Firstly, I need to make peace with it and accept it as much as I can, because life is demanding every bit of energy I have. I don't have a choice, but I can choose to try to make my peace with it. Torturing myself every day doesn't help. If I'm going to have a career as a writer, which I hope I will, I can learn now that sometimes life happens and writing has to take a back seat. In fact, it was one of the first things the author who is my mentor told me.

Secondly, although I'm a big believer in normal times of showing up to write even if you don't feel like it, this is different. I refuse to force myself to write. In my experience, forcing myself to do things has never ended well. In fact, the word force is a useful red flag if I ever think it. Also, I absolutely know creativity is a sensitive creature, and does not respond well to force. It needs space, love, nurturing, freedom and a bit of disciplined routine.

So how do I remain a writer if I can't write? Am I still a writer?

Yes. A thousand defiant times yes. I am a writer because I am. Because I love writing and I have worked hard at my craft. I have written two thirds of the second draft of a novel already, it's sitting there ready and waiting for me in Scrivenor, and I have not a single doubt that I will return to working hard at finishing it as soon as I'm ready. Because I want to publish my novel. Correction: novels. Because I want to be a writer and am absolutely determined to return to writing as soon as I'm able. So there.

But how do I reassure myself during this horrible hiatus?

I have decided to ask my gut a question each day: "What one thing can I do to be a writer today?"

I can free write in my lovely notebook using a good pen.

I can read a novel, because reading is an investment in my writing.

I can write stuff on Substack, be it a short or long note. Or just read all your wonderful articles.

I can read books about writing to develop my craft. Currently I'm on my favourite 'Art and Fear' by Bayles and Orland.

I can reach out for support, from you lovely people here on Substack, from my writing mentor.

Or maybe I can just rest, because nurturing myself will always nurture my writing.

That's all I've got. I'd be fascinated to know if any of you out there have had periods of time when you couldn't write, and how you coped. Do let me know in the comments if you can.

Ultimately, I have one weapon left, and I'm gripping onto it. Belief. I believe I am a writer. I believe I can write. I believe I will write again.

Thankyou for reading this, because it helped writing it. (I wrote it all on my phone because I'm too scared to open my laptop!)

That in itself was a struggle. Surely if I’m a writer nothing should stop me writing? I should be able to write through hell and high water? Also, given that I write at the pace of the slowest of slow snails, surely I need urgently to keep writing? But a lot of people here on Substsack are adamant that sometimes it’s OK not to write, sometimes you can’t write, sometimes life and self care come first. So I eventually gave myself permission – I don’t have to write right now.

Then last week I was lucky enough to go and stay a week in Italy with loving relatives. Finally, I could let go, release, relax. For the first time in so long. I’ve been staying strong, holding it together, making things work for ages, and I got to simply put it all down. God I needed that, and felt so lucky to get the chance. I was tempted to force it into being a writing retreat to make up for lost time! Again, I gave myself permission not to write in spite of all the ‘shoulds’ in my head.

Now I’m home. My husband and I are through the initial crisis and it will be a long haul to see what our relationship evolves into. The process of buying and selling houses will take months. I feel stressed and vulnerable about all of that, but that is not going to go away any time soon. What I can’t afford to do is wait till it’s all over till I write again. Anyway, it will never all be over. I want to get my writing back in my life, and I want to find a way to do it through all the other stuff going on. Partly because I need to get on with my WIP if it’s ever to get finished, and also because I love writing and it hugely benefits me. A good writing session can turn a bad day into a good one, I believe in my voice and I’ve got things I want to say, it gives me purpose, it’s a huge part of my identity. In fact, now I’m through the crises, the fact that life is tricky is a huge reason to write – to help get me through.

But I’m scared. I’m actually afraid to click on Scrivenor.

So how on earth to I face the fear of re-starting writing?

1) It has to be gentle, compassionate, flexible, and gut lead. In my experience, forcing myself to do something never ends well. In fact, just realising I’m using the phrase “force myself” in my head is a useful red flag NOT to do something. My writing comes from me, so nurturing myself, whatever that looks like, will always be nurturing my writing. So, I’m setting no targets, no rules. Every day I’m simply going to ask the question: “What can I do to be a writer today?”

2) Reach out. I’ve found support in this lovely Substack community. I know I’m not the only one, but it feels lonely right now in this struggle to write. @sheridancass has a lovely piece on The Art of Showing Up. My friend @michellereeveswrites recommended @lynnhardin How to Return to Your Art. The impact of a like or a message has been enormous in encouraging me. Thankyou to everyone out there for being there. I’m also going to arrange a call with my writing mentor. This is her moment to do her job, right?! She is both an author and a wonderful human being, and I need to ask honestly for support right now.

3) Find nourishment. Reading is investing in your writing, so I’m making sure I’m reading great books. I’ve also decided to re-read one of the best books on writing and creativity I have come across: ‘Art and Fear – Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking’ by David Bayles and Ted Orland. I mean, I love the title alone. This book is brilliant, and I’m returning to clutch it like a drowning sailor clutches that single floating log.

4) Be diverse. There are so many different things that I can do to benefit my WIP. I can leap ahead and write fresh material. I can edit old chapters. I can just sit and read my words and see what my voice sounds like. I can work on my various sections of notes on characters, plot, themes, feedback from my mentor. I can look at my favourite passages and just feel good about myself. I could work out the word count and feel proud of what I’ve accomplished so far (approximately 70,000 words). I can get sentimental and write the acknowledgements section sobbing thanks to my friends and family before I’ve even finished the book! I can post on Substack. I can write in my free writing notebook. I can go on a walk and let my ideas run wild and roam free. I need to be flexible and adaptive if I want to be productive. It’s OK if each writing session looks very different. Writing should be a wild process, it does not like to be contained.

5) Accept that, sometimes, in spite of all the above, I won’t write. The only way I have managed to write this is do it in a café IN a bookshop. Bribed by hot beverages.

I don’t have any other ideas – do you?

I will find a way to write again. I will write my novel. I will write.

Because I’m a writer. And I’m not giving up.

A few mins walk around the corner from my house is a Bangladeshi cafe. There is almost no seating in the front, but during lockdown in the pandemic the owners put up a building in the garden with a courtyard between it and the shopfront/kitchen. It's a simple building, with corrugated iron roof and walls, but is nicely decorated, has a black and white tiled floor, and in the summer the bifold doors open up onto the sunny courtyard allowing cool breezes into the shaded cafe.

There are two main attractions. One is that the food and drink is outstanding, genuine home cooking. I always drink the Deshi Cha, which beats all the commercial Chai drinks you can get in chain cafes hand down. It's milky, spicy and how the family drink it at home. That's the second attraction; it is run by a family. The mum is a natural at hospitality and table service, and has an extraordinary ability to remember everyone's names. You are welcomed like family, as if to her home. It's a special atmosphere, and has a loyal following of regulars.

This is where I have gravitated to coming each afternoon to write. I'm now known, welcomed as a friend, and automatically brought my usual Deshi Cha. A key bonus, that all cafe writers will appreciate, is that every table has plug suckets. Since starting writing, I think I know the location of every cafe's plug sockets in town!

The magic ingredient has been consistency. Coming here most afternoons, week in, week out, for several years has created an association at a non-conscious level between this cafe and writing on my laptop. All I have to do is come here, sit down, fire up my laptop, take a first taste of steaming hot (or iced) cha, and I'm cued to write. My hands literally just want to start typing. In fact, if I ever come here with a friend or just to eat, it feels really weird not typing! This association is so helpful on tired days, or days when I don't want to write, or when it's not going well, because I've got something helping me write that requires no active input from me. I just have to show up for it to kick in.

However, every writer needs a desk at home to work from, and here is where life is exciting right now. In an earlier newsletter I described the turbulence of my husband and I deciding to try staying married but living separately, and we have now entered the crazy world of the housing market again, hoping to sell our house and buy two small flats. But here's the upside that I'm loving - I'm going to get to decorate my own apartment just for me, and that includes choosing my own writer's DESK!

I've found one, too. Second hand, old fashioned style with a flap that folds down, stripped wood combined with teal and hot pink paint, with leaf-patterned wallpaper at the back behind all the little cubby holes. That probably sounds disgusting. maybe it is disgusting, but I love it, and I'm going to create my very own writing space around it in my new home. I can't wait.

Because it matters where you write. It's not the only thing that matters, but it is an important thing. If you don't feel right, words aren't going to flow. So I love that I have found a writing place; and I love switching it up as well and sometimes writing in other places. Both!

But maybe I'm going to soon have more time and space for writing. I'm wondering about what it would be like to fix a drink at 6pm, old fashioned style, and do an evening write each night before cooking dinner in that sort of between time. I'm wondering about weekend writing, which I usually take off for processing, but maybe I could rack up some words as well. I'm wondering about grabbing my laptop and experimenting with writing on any and every surface and location in the house, ignoring desks and tables altogether.

My new house, that is.

Saying I will soon have more time and space to write is me trying to find a positive in the fact that on Sunday my husband and I decided to semi- separate. We're staying together, but going to live apart. We still are in love with eachother and want to be together, but with six chronic health conditions between us we just can't make living in the same house work. God knows, we've tried. We need to sell our house and try to afford two small houses out of it. After that, who knows. We can only deal with so much at a time.

We're taking 3 weeks apart to test the decision and trial a separation, but I'm pretty sure I know I want to move out at the end of it.

So yes, I'm going to be living on my own soon in a new home, where I'll need to find a new writing desk/spots, and where I'll suddenly have a lot more time and space. That may be bliss. That may be agony. But hopefully I can use some of it to write.

Because isn't that the point? To write about life, through life, in between life, transitions and beyond. Write something, prose or poetry, it doesn't matter. In my storm of emotions I hope words will eventually emerge. In my confusion of relationship, I hope words will find shapes in time.

Till then, forgive me if I'm a bit more absent sometimes here on Substack. I've got houses to buy and sell, finances to sort, and SO much admin.... Not to mention I love my husband and I'm having to partly leave him.