Retirement speeches don't often take my breath away, but I was incredibly fortunate once, to attend one that did - that of a colleague of mine, a Biology teacher. He told us of a holiday he took over Christmas in 2004 in the Indian Ocean. The day a tsunami hit.
He described his time on the beach. The way the ocean was sucked out, leaving the seabed exposed. He rescued his family and many others on the beach that morning, ushering everyone onto a bus that was just arriving and ordering the driver to speed inland, uphill.
That’s how things feel at the moment to me. The sea, the air, is being pulled away and we’re just waiting now for the tidal wave to hit.
The tears? I’ve shed my share these last few days. Comforted others while they’ve shed theirs. There’s a lot to be afraid of. We know the decimation that Covid 19 is bringing to communities around the world. But what’s worse is this fear of the unknown. What might happen to our own families, our own friends?
I’m also in mourning. My life as a writer has been pretty much snuffed out. For a few months at least. Already, I see friends using their time to sub to magazines and competitions and promote their novels and I’m happy for them, but feel trapped.
How incredibly selfish and ungrateful. I’m in a much luckier position than many. My husband and I are in good health and have a wonderful son who’s also healthy. But we’re both Category 1 critical workers. As a part-time teacher I’ll be helping young people who don’t have the support they would ideally have at home. My husband, a policeman, will be working a lot too, doing what, I dread to think. Riley’s grandparents will be in isolation too. So when I’m at home, I’ll be caring for Riley mostly on my own. I’ll be looking after our physical and mental health as best I can, with play, fresh air, exercise, healthy eating and mindfulness. I’ll have little, if any, time to write. My husband (concerned for my health), will do his best to provide me with alone-time to write, and I'll do what I can to look after him too, but we both know how exhausted we’ll likely be.
Those unfinished projects will just have to languish a little longer. I'll be spending more time with Riley and I want us to have as much fun together as possible.
I’ll do my best to support other writers too. I’m aiming to do a six-minute writing session live some mornings. It’ll force me to keep up with this critical aspect of my writing practice, but I know it’ll help encourage other writers too. I’ll let you know if and when I set this up (sign up here for updates). Be warned, though, these might experience regular interruptions by a cutely demanding five-year-old. Feel free to let me know what else you might need and I’ll do what I can to help facilitate it.
In the mean time...
He described his time on the beach. The way the ocean was sucked out, leaving the seabed exposed. He rescued his family and many others on the beach that morning, ushering everyone onto a bus that was just arriving and ordering the driver to speed inland, uphill.
That’s how things feel at the moment to me. The sea, the air, is being pulled away and we’re just waiting now for the tidal wave to hit.
The tears? I’ve shed my share these last few days. Comforted others while they’ve shed theirs. There’s a lot to be afraid of. We know the decimation that Covid 19 is bringing to communities around the world. But what’s worse is this fear of the unknown. What might happen to our own families, our own friends?
I’m also in mourning. My life as a writer has been pretty much snuffed out. For a few months at least. Already, I see friends using their time to sub to magazines and competitions and promote their novels and I’m happy for them, but feel trapped.
How incredibly selfish and ungrateful. I’m in a much luckier position than many. My husband and I are in good health and have a wonderful son who’s also healthy. But we’re both Category 1 critical workers. As a part-time teacher I’ll be helping young people who don’t have the support they would ideally have at home. My husband, a policeman, will be working a lot too, doing what, I dread to think. Riley’s grandparents will be in isolation too. So when I’m at home, I’ll be caring for Riley mostly on my own. I’ll be looking after our physical and mental health as best I can, with play, fresh air, exercise, healthy eating and mindfulness. I’ll have little, if any, time to write. My husband (concerned for my health), will do his best to provide me with alone-time to write, and I'll do what I can to look after him too, but we both know how exhausted we’ll likely be.
Those unfinished projects will just have to languish a little longer. I'll be spending more time with Riley and I want us to have as much fun together as possible.
I’ll do my best to support other writers too. I’m aiming to do a six-minute writing session live some mornings. It’ll force me to keep up with this critical aspect of my writing practice, but I know it’ll help encourage other writers too. I’ll let you know if and when I set this up (sign up here for updates). Be warned, though, these might experience regular interruptions by a cutely demanding five-year-old. Feel free to let me know what else you might need and I’ll do what I can to help facilitate it.
In the mean time...
In the mean time let’s do what we can to support each other. There are great resources out there to help people connect. Social media can be pretty overwhelming at the moment, but it can also be used to socialise and find support. You can also use apps like Slack to share and feed back on each other’s writing.
I’m lucky that I’m at least in a waged job. Lots of freelance writers out there aren’t. Please do buy their books, support them on Patreon, review them on Amazon. If you have time spare moment, include me too, but prioritise freelance writers who need more financial help.
The other thing we can do, as writers, is document what’s happening. History records facts and figures. What writers do is reflect the reality of events. The real truth, the real soul of history is in the stories, the poetry, of those who were there and experienced it.
Closing the bedroom curtains the other night, I was distracted for a few minutes by the night sky. There’s nothing like a bit of star-gazing for perspective. I’d been out in the garden all afternoon with my little boy, Riley. We dug, we planted, we moved rocks. It’s Spring here in Scotland. The edges of snowdrops are browning, daffodils are lifting their yellow heads to the sun. Nature’s waking up just as we’re all locking down.
This whole mess is bound to change the world. I’m scared. But I’m also hopeful that some good will come out of it. I wonder what will have changed by the time green shoots spike through frost again and we star-gaze at a clear Spring sky.
Very soon, we may all be confined to home for a good while. But just because you’re isolated, doesn’t mean you have to be lonely. Isn’t it amazing that in black and white squiggles on paper or screen, we can find such human connection.
So… while I’m signing off for the moment, please don’t feel that you’re alone. I’m here. Let me know how you’re doing.
Breathe. Rest. Write, if you can and you want to.
Take care,
Laura
I’m lucky that I’m at least in a waged job. Lots of freelance writers out there aren’t. Please do buy their books, support them on Patreon, review them on Amazon. If you have time spare moment, include me too, but prioritise freelance writers who need more financial help.
The other thing we can do, as writers, is document what’s happening. History records facts and figures. What writers do is reflect the reality of events. The real truth, the real soul of history is in the stories, the poetry, of those who were there and experienced it.
Closing the bedroom curtains the other night, I was distracted for a few minutes by the night sky. There’s nothing like a bit of star-gazing for perspective. I’d been out in the garden all afternoon with my little boy, Riley. We dug, we planted, we moved rocks. It’s Spring here in Scotland. The edges of snowdrops are browning, daffodils are lifting their yellow heads to the sun. Nature’s waking up just as we’re all locking down.
This whole mess is bound to change the world. I’m scared. But I’m also hopeful that some good will come out of it. I wonder what will have changed by the time green shoots spike through frost again and we star-gaze at a clear Spring sky.
Very soon, we may all be confined to home for a good while. But just because you’re isolated, doesn’t mean you have to be lonely. Isn’t it amazing that in black and white squiggles on paper or screen, we can find such human connection.
So… while I’m signing off for the moment, please don’t feel that you’re alone. I’m here. Let me know how you’re doing.
Breathe. Rest. Write, if you can and you want to.
Take care,
Laura
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