time off

Over the past few weeks, I’ve barely written a thing. I’ve thought about it often enough, found a subject I think could be interesting, picked up the pen (or the laptop) and…. Nah. Nothing doing. There was a time when that would have sent me into some kind of tailspin of doubt, an oh-my-god-will-I-ever-write-again whirlwind of anxiety. Now? Not so much. Maybe it’s to do with getting older and – well, if not wiser, then maybe less resolutely un-wise. These days I’m more inclined to recognise that creativity doesn’t always turn up on spec, that it’s quite capable of being a contrary so-and-so and working to its own timetable thank you very much, and how’s 3am grab you, sleepyhead?

It’s not like I’ve nothing to do. The list of jobs to do round the house is longer than both my arms and then some, and there’s worse ways to spend a morning than painting a door in the sunshine. The gym’s open again, and I’ve been making my regular token gesture at getting back into something I like to tell myself counts as ‘shape’. There’s been bread to bake, and fresh-baked bread to eat, too. Life to enjoy, a little time off while I wait on poems which will come when they want to.

This afternoon, I came back from the gym, opened the laptop, and found this poem waiting to be typed into the world. I hope you enjoy it. It’s probably got a friend waiting to wake me at 3am. And I’ll be happy to see it, as always. If a little bleary-eyed.