Iona Winter

Yes…well…I signed off social media in order to begin my re-write of ‘The Novel’. And I did do a major chunk. Truly, I did. And then I stopped. Why? Because the intensity of such a close relationship called for some time out.

Then, I got creative in other ways. Being a bit of an eco-minded-woman, coupled with the onset of cooler weather here, I looked through the cupboards for more blankets. Most were singles. Out came my scissors, a needle, and some wool, and soon two small blankets became one large luxurious one. I was proud of myself. BUT did it stop there? NO. Another abandoned project was quickly recycled into a new pōtae (hat). Whoop whoop, go you creative woman you! I am (sometimes) truly surprised at my energy for creating things. AND I ask myself at night, shouldn’t you be channeling that energy into something else…like WRITING?

‘The Novel’ waits, lingering on the edge of my desk, covered in an assortment of miscellaneous papers. 

Okay I confess, I began a new story (talk about avoidance) from Mrs Poohs perspective (see previous post for info on Mrs Poohs). I wondered how a chicken might feel, if they hadn’t wanted to be reincarnated as one. Random thought (I know) but off I went down the trail of investigative journalism. I went and sat for a while with Mrs Poohs and observed her demeanour. Major distraction (I know), but it confirmed my hypothesis. She’s definitely not happy being a chook.

And still ‘The Novel’ waits, lingering on the edge of my desk, covered in an assortment of miscellaneous papers. 

I realise the issue and (trust me) I’m good at getting to the heart of matters. Time has been such a luxury this past month, without much paid work on. Some anxiety there perhaps?But this week I’ve had three job interviews. Am I avoiding writing because I fear my relationship with it will be severed, once I’m back working a fuller week? Think you might be onto something there missus. 

Today I make this promise (mainly to myself). I will continue my relationship with ‘The Novel’, for I must—otherwise the last (I lose count of exactly how many) years will have been for nothing. Yes, my anxiety is high. Finding work to pay the bills, wondering when I will get feedback from the thesis examiners, making time to write (and not stress about what people will think if I don’t mow the lawns), attending job interviews, wondering if I have passed my Masters…yeah, yeah, it’s all of the above.

Anxiety is on the menu, and best served at a lukewarm temperature. Yet here I boldly go, off into the lands of murkiness and uncertainty. I know (with every fibre of my being) that my writing is the shining light at the core of it all. There’s nothing to be afraid of there. I just need to remember to breathe.